


All I Need, Darling, is a Life in Your Shape

by tranquilatlast



Series: I Love Everybody Because I Love You [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Amputation, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, F/M, Fix-It, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Requited Love, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranquilatlast/pseuds/tranquilatlast
Summary: “So should I ever talk about it, or just never bring it up? I can keep not bringing it up,” Richie says one day, propping his chin in his hand as he leans on Eddie’s hospital bed.“My arm?” Eddie asks blandly. “The lack of it, you mean.”“Well, yeah, I don’t want to, like… I dunno.”“You can talk about it. It’s alright.” Eddie’s face twitches a little funny in the way it does when he thinks of something funny, and he gestures at where his arm’s been cut off above the elbow. He has sutures still, but there are bandages over it. “All right. No left.”*After Derry, Richie doesn't want to let Eddie out of his sight. He comes along with him to New York, and they start the rest of their lives together. Hopefully Eddie doesn't mind.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: I Love Everybody Because I Love You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719166
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i slaved over this for nearly THREE MONTHS and i'm sick of looking at it i'm done it's finished i'm writing the next part but here you go!!! if this fic was alive it would be a grown fucking baby by now please take care of her
> 
> this takes place after canon and everyone lives. you don't need to read the previous work in the series to get this, yes it's a sequel but it doesn't really matter (if that makes sense)! if anything you're free to imagine it isn't a sequel it isn't important, but pleaseee consider checking it out!
> 
> in the meantime, hope you enjoy!!!

“Go, go, go, go, go!” someone shouts, even though everyone’s already running. Richie trips, ducks, yelps as he runs, taking up the back of the group and hearing every piece of debris splashing into the greywater behind him. A boulder from behind launches him forward a few inches, and a smaller rock clips his elbow. “Almost there!”

They never pause, adrenaline coursing through their veins and pushing them forward. When they climb out of the well and rush through the house, their sprint doesn’t slow. The Losers only stop when they’re in the street, whipping around to view the collapse of Neibolt. Richie doesn’t bother.

“Car! Did any of us bring a car?” he asks frantically, and they all jump into action again. They didn’t drive a car, Richie knows that, but Ben starts running north and everyone else is quick to follow. Someone—Bill, Richie thinks—is speaking into their phone within a few seconds.

Luckily, Bangor’s always been more reliable than Derry has. They’re still running when the ambulance finds them a few minutes later, sirens blaring, and Ben carries an unconscious Eddie into the vehicle. The EMTs go to close the doors, but Ben jumps out at the same time Richie’s scrambling in.

He doesn’t take a breath until hours later, when a relieved doctor comes into the waiting room to tell them Eddie made it through surgery.

“He’s a tough cookie, that one,” she says, a smile on her face when the Losers sigh and cheer and embrace. Richie feels Ben take him into a tight side-hug, but his eyes are fixed on the entrance to the hall. “We’re just going to make sure he stays stable for a while, and then two people at a time can visit him.”

For the next few days, the Losers try to adjust. Richie is nearly kicked out of the waiting room for hanging around the entire day and smelling so bad, he bothers the nurses and other visitors. It takes two doctors and all of his friends to convince him Eddie will be asleep for a while, and that he has plenty of time to take a shower back at the inn.

Once he’s clean, he’s welcome to spend most of his time in the Bangor hospital waiting room. He moves into Eddie’s room once he’s allowed to, and the rest of the Losers don’t even bat an eye. Ben has to leave when the week is through, but he’s ready to extend his stay while Beverly makes plenty of phone calls and even more cigarette breaks. She gets everything done before Ben has to reschedule, and the two of them head off together.

Richie doesn’t even think their plane’s taken off when Beverly spams their group chat with borderline unintelligible texts. Before any of them can worry, she adds a new contact to the chat, and Stan is reconnected with the rest of them. They facetime together in pairs: Bev and Ben, Bill and Mike, Richie and the wall (when he isn’t shoving the phone in an unconscious Eddie’s face to show Stan until he laughs and tells Richie to “Leave the poor kid alone, Trashmouth,”).

They meet lovely Patricia Blum Uris, who is blonde and sweet and smiley. She’s nice enough to be holding the phone up for herself and Stanley, and even nicer to politely ignore the tears on each Loser’s face. They get too excited to thank her properly, but Richie catches Stan’s hand moving to hold Patty’s free arm at the bottom of their screen. He’s only just met Patty, but judging by the look on her face, he’s sure she thinks the world of Stan. Stan looks the same.

Bill has to leave soon after, making a few phone calls of his own that are only slightly similar to Beverly’s before heading back to LA to discuss his own divorce. Mike spends most of his time with Richie, even when Richie apologizes over and over for keeping him, and Mike assures he could be gone by then if he wanted to. Eventually, he is, and Richie practically shoos him away to start the traveling he’s been buzzing about.

“And you’d think they’d show proof of it, right,” Richie prompts one morning, before shooting his arms out incredulously, “but they lost the footage! How do you lose something like that? Well, obviously, they did it on purpose. Nothing they could’ve done would have refuted anything, so they totally dropped out of the game altogether. How fucked up is that? Some world we live in. And that’s why space is a lie.”

“Ugh,” Eddie replies, and Richie freezes. That was the first he’s heard from Eddie in days.

“Eds? Eddie?” Richie fumbles to press the call button at the side of the hospital bed.

“Why… Wh…” Richie was torn between shushing him and urging him to continue.

“Hey, hey, buddy,” he says, just about to pat Eddie’s face before thinking better of it. He grabs Eddie’s hand instead, sandwiching it between both of his own and rubbing into it with his thumbs. “You awake? You good, Eds?”

Eddie slurs something, tired and quiet, and Richie leans forward to hear whatever it is his best friend is saying.

“Fucking… 'oon landing,” Eddie murmurs, eyes blinking half-open as he frowns.

“Yeah, yeah man. Moon landing’s fake,” Richie soothes, and he can’t help but laugh when Eddie’s frown deepens. Luckily, he’s too fucked up on drugs to notice Richie’s crying a little.

Eddie takes the next ten days to recover, and is introduced to proper swelling care and physical therapy. He regains his strength, and complains about the jello, and argues with Richie about other stupid conspiracies he’d gotten into while looking for interesting things to do on his phone. They catch the Losers up through copious amounts of facetimes and phone calls, and Eddie’s doctor says he’s to stay one more week.

“So should I ever talk about it, or just never bring it up? I can keep _not_ bringing it up,” Richie says one day, propping his chin in his hand as he leans on Eddie’s bed. He watches the unpleasant face Eddie makes when drinking his orange juice from a cup, and the way his mostly-healed stab wound moves with his expression.

“What are you talking about?” Eddie asks, finishing half the cup in one long gulp. Richie continues to stare up at him, probably a little wide-eyed and stupid, like some kid at an aquarium for the first time. He barely blinks until Eddie finally looks back with a crease to his brow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not even looking at you,” Richie says, grinning, and Eddie rolls his eyes. There’s a little flush on his face, and Richie wonders if the attention is making him uncomfortable. He averts his gaze to the tray of food in front of Eddie. “I’m talking about the… your, y’know.”

“My arm?” Eddie asks blandly, turning back to pick up his plastic fork with his one remaining hand and poke at the scrambled eggs on his tray. Richie shifts to sit up, and grabs the salt packet next to the plate. “The lack of it, you mean.”

“Yeah.” He tears the salt packet and carefully sprinkles it over the tasteless eggs. He was planning on finding actual food (read: McDonald’s) today, but Eddie gave his hand a squeeze when he woke up this morning and Richie decided he didn’t want to leave the hospital. “Pepper?”

“You can talk about my arm, if you want,” Eddie replies, and Richie looks at him. Eddie is looking right back, his doe eyes round and wide even as he’s making a face. “I didn’t realize you were avoiding it.”

“Well, yeah, I didn’t want to, like… I dunno.” He shakes the pepper packet and Eddie nods. Richie tears that open, too, and sprinkles half over the eggs. Eddie doesn’t like pepper on his eggs, usually, but he admitted it adds more flavor.

“You can talk about it. It’s alright.” Eddie’s face twitches a little funny in the way it does when he thinks of something funny, and he gestures at where his arm’s been cut off above the elbow. He has sutures still, but there are bandages over it. “ _All right._ No left.”

Richie busts out laughing, leaning back with a hand on his stomach. He laughs even harder when he notices Eddie looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“So, what next?” Ben asks over a video call later, sitting next to Beverly. He had his arm wrapped around her as she ate, holding a plate of sliced strawberries and pineapple and mango. They’re grossly domestic and in love now, it’s ridiculous. Richie adores them.

“What do you mean?” Eddie says, eyeing the food on the screen. His right hand twitches over the stiff cotton sheets. Maybe Richie should get him a fruit cup later, or something. What kind of fruit did Eddie like again?

“You’re gonna be discharged in a little bit, right?” Beverly translates, mouth half-full. Her hair is tied back into a tiny ponytail, and her cheeks are stuffed with fruit, reminiscent of a chipmunk. She looks beautiful. “When are you going back home?”

“Oh. I haven’t called Myra.” Eddie glances across the room, where Richie had placed his things. Their luggage was taking up a lot of space, and the hospital had given them a little baggie of Eddie’s belongings from when he’d been carted off to surgery.

His clothes had been tossed and his phone was off, probably ruined, but he had a waterproof wallet. Richie would have made fun of him for it if his own leather wallet hadn’t been soaked through. The rest of them had thrown their sewer clothes away, too, and Beverly showed them how to clean their money with the nonchalance of someone who’s had to do it a million times before.

“You want to use my phone?” Richie offers, even though the thought of his best friend’s wife having his cell number made him feel a little nauseous. “Or the hospital’s? Do you remember her number?”

“I remember her number.” Eddie looks at Richie or a few seconds before turning back at the phone. Bev is feeding Ben a piece of strawberry, and they both have sweet smiles on their faces. “I’ll call her later.”

“Oh, okay,” Ben hums, even though he’s still looking at Bev. He chews absentmindedly, and grabs a piece of pineapple for himself as he looks back at the camera. “Probably best to give it some time, huh?”

“Yeah. I just need to get some stuff in order first. Bev?” Beverly looks up and pauses in her chewing. Richie glances at Eddie to see his expression had turned a little sad, but determined. “Do you happen to know any other good divorce lawyers?”

Before Eddie is able to leave the hospital, they talk to him a lot about care for his residual limb. Doctors and nurses tell him about swelling and infection as they replace his dressing. Since Richie is there most of the time, they make sure to tell him, too. He’s become the assumed caretaker of Eddie just because of his steady presence by Eddie’s bedside. They share a glance every time it happens, but don’t bother interrupting to correct anyone.

When they take out Eddie’s sutures, they explain how they use his dressings to alleviate pain, and they walk Eddie through the whole thing so he can do it on his own. He does it perfectly by the fourth try. They even ask Richie to do it on occasion and he expects Eddie to tease him a little, but instead he just says Richie gets better at it every time.

It’s after they change Eddie’s dressing for the second time that day that Richie leans against the hallway wall while Eddie calls his wife. He can hear Eddie’s strained voice through the door, like he wants to raise his voice, but knows it won’t do him any good. Richie doesn’t know much about the whole marriage thing, much less divorce, but he assumes it’s rarely easy.

Last they heard from Bill, he was already finalizing his own separation thanks to a prenup and Audra Phillips’ lack of argument against his decision. Beverly was spending time with Ben, but explained she was living with a friend until things blew over on account of Tom being “a vindictive little shit who’ll use whatever he can get his grubby little hands on to get his way.”

Richie always thought Bev was the strongest out of all of them. Every time she smiles and laughs and cracks a joke, despite what she’s gone through, he only believes it more. She had the biggest balls out of all the Losers. (Not that he’d say that to her face—she definitely knew it, and she’d probably tease Richie for, like, ever.)

Richie can’t make out anything Eddie is saying from the hallway, but he hears a relentless barrage of words that seem to increase in definitivity and leave no room for further argument. A pause comes next, as if he’s hanging up the phone. Then Eddie groans, long and pained, and Richie takes that as his cue. He strides across the hall in two steps and cracks the door open enough to peek his head in. Eddie is hunched over, knees up and face buried in his one hand.

“Uh… knock knock?” Richie asks, rapping on the doorframe twice. Eddie just groans again, and Richie slips into the room. He’d ended up lending his phone to Eddie after all, and sees it screen down on the cute little bedside table. “Tough crowd.”

“She is _insufferable,”_ Eddie begins, and Richie resigns himself to taking a seat in his usual spot as his friend raises his head. “She was so sad, an-and then she kept interrupting me, and trying to work it out, but I didn’t _want_ to work it out. How could I?”

“You think she’s gonna give you a hard time?” Richie asks. He scoots forward to rest his forearms on the bed, right next to Eddie’s leg.

“I think—I _hope_ she’ll ultimately accept it, but she’s probably going to be really upset at first. Probably bring up, like, marriage counseling, or as if I’m taking my meds, I… I don’t know.” Richie furrowed his brow.

“Does she make you take pills? Like, your, uh—Like Sonia?” Eddie shakes his head, but he doesn’t look surprised by the question. That’s one good thing, Richie supposes.

“She never made me. I was the one who actually, genuinely believed I was sick, because my mom convinced me, and we… we _both_ convinced Myra. Pretty easily. I don’t know how I’m going to explain to her how I remember.” He makes a face. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Myra can be… too much. Not as much as my mom, but enough to, like, mess me up a little bit. Probably why my mom liked her so much.”

Eddie’s residual limb jerks, like he means to use the left arm that isn’t there, and Richie winces before he can stop himself. It’s wrapped in compression bandages that Richie had dressed earlier today. Eddie looks even more upset, but not because of Richie.

“You okay, man?” he asks meekly.

“No.” Eddie looks pained. “Oh my fucking god.”

“Can I help? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just. Completely forgot to tell her I lost my arm.”

“What? Dude.” Richie can’t help it—a shocked laugh escapes from his throat. Eddie glares at the remainder of his arm, still wrapped in bandages. “You forgot to tell your wife you’re down a limb?”

“I forgot to tell my wife I’m down a limb,” Eddie says miserably. Richie pats his knee through the blanket as a comfort, but he still wants to laugh a little. “I also need to figure out where I’m staying, I guess. Fuck. I need to hire guys to carry my shit for me.”

“I can carry your shit for you,” Richie offers, and Eddie looks bewildered, like that’s the dumbest joke Richie’s ever said. “What’s that face? New York, right? I can go with you to get your stuff. And, like, whatever else you need.”

“I heard you the first time. I lost an arm, not my ears.” Eddie’s looking at him weird, still. It’s enough for Richie to withdraw his hand and lean back to sit up properly. “You would do that for me?”

“Yeah, man, of course.” Why wouldn’t he? Unless Eddie didn’t want him to. Richie scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, if you’d rather hire people, then—”

“No. No, you’re… I would really appreciate that, actually. Thanks, Rich.” Eddie looks at him strangely for a few more moments, then down to the blanket.

"Yeah, no problemo." Richie realizes Eddie is looking at the spot his hand was just touching. Hesitantly, he places his hand back onto Eddie’s knee with another soft pat. Eddie makes another face, but puts his hand on top of Richie’s so he can’t move it away. “Other than that, you good? You sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure. I don’t want anything else,” Eddie says firmly, seriously, even as he gently swipes his thumb over the back of Richie’s hand. Back and forth, back and forth. His hand is so small compared to Richie’s. It suddenly becomes too much, whatever it is building up in this room, and Richie gets sort of desperate to knock it down.

“Sounds good. So, like, when do you think Myra will get into dating again? I’ve been in sort of a dry spell lately, so—” He doesn’t get to finish before Eddie’s snatching his hand away to knock on Richie’s head, already halfway into a rant, and Richie’s laughter trails out into the hallway.

* * *

So they go to New York (after Richie takes a little detour one afternoon, while Eddie’s busy with his last checkup). They each buy their own tickets, and end up a few rows away from each other on the plane. Eddie’s gotten a hotel room with two beds, and Richie Venmos him half the price after some bickering. Richie insists on getting the rental car, though, and drives Eddie to get himself a new phone. While Eddie makes a few calls, Richie goes to pick up takeout for dinner.

They eat chicken curry and spicy fried rice (“White people spicy, though, please, I don’t know my friend’s spiciness tolerance.” “Okay. You famous?” “Nope!”) while watching Netflix on Richie’s phone, so Eddie can text the Losers’ group chat from his own. They’re glad Richie is with him, but the way they say it suggests that’s what they’d expected, anyway. He tries not to think about it too much.

“So… how’s the whole... _divorce_ thing going?” Richie asks that night instead of picking up his phone. His manager is calling and they finished their Thai leftovers half an hour ago, so they have nothing to do except stare at the Accept and Decline buttons on the sideways screen. Richie’s phone is on silent, and their hotel room is far too quiet.

“The whole ‘divorce thing,’” Eddie repeats blandly, tapping his lap idly with his one hand as they wait for the ringing to stop. It does, but starts right up again a few seconds later. “It’s going okay. I talked with Myra again, and this time she knew right away I was… off.”

“This before or after you tell her you’re down one limb?” Richie asks, glancing over at him. He notices Eddie’s face wound is healed by now, mostly a scar, and wonders whether it still gets sore. They’re sitting against the fancy wooden headboard of Richie’s designated bed, because Eddie hadn’t wanted to eat on his.

“Before,” Eddie says, hand twitching a little like he wants to reach forward and decline the call so they could get back to watching _New Girl,_ “and she freaked when I told her, obviously, but I said I didn’t want to talk about it. We were on the phone for a while, while you were doing… whatever you were doing.”

“I was taking a walk, which was pleasant and fun,” Richie says, almost wanting to decline the call himself. He decides not to, because he knows Steve counts the rings and would get even more furious if he knew Richie dropped him. “Saw some pigeons and took a few pictures for Stan. Stopped by Starbucks, got an iced latte. They made it wrong, but I was too shy to tell them, so I drank all of it next to the trash can and left. Thank you for asking.”

“Myra’s agreed to leave it uncontested, no-fault. We have a prenup. With all that, I’m hoping it’ll get finalized within a month or two. What kind of latte did you get?”

“I ordered an iced cinnamon dolce, but they forgot the ice. And the sprinkles. It’s okay, it was a little busy, so I didn’t bother. Uncontested, no-fault, that’s good?”

“It means we don’t have to take anything to court, and we haven’t argued about who’s getting what— _un_ contested, dude, no contest—so it’s likely to go smoothly. I expected more of a fight, but I guess even she knew it wasn’t working. Actually… that shouldn't be surprising. I wouldn’t marry an idiot.” Eddie pauses, thinking. “So what, you just chugged a hot latte?”

“Yeah, man, I just chugged a hot latte. Right by the trashcans." The phone finally stops ringing, and they wait for a few seconds to make sure it won’t go off again before Richie pushes play. The episode continues, and they relax into the headboard as the dialogue creeps through the room again.

Eddie uncrosses his ankles, crosses them the opposite way, then ends up bringing his legs in to sit criss-cross applesauce in his gray sweatpants. Richie’s wearing sweatpants, too, and his legs are all sprawled out and gangly. Eddie’s sitting close enough that when he adjusts his position, his socked foot hits Richie’s thigh and stays there.

“Why didn’t you just ask for, like, a cup of ice?” Eddie’s already halfway invested in the show again, but Richie catches his glance. Something funny happens onscreen that Richie doesn’t get to see, because he ends up turning his head just in time for the funny thing to play out entirely.

He watches Eddie’s eyebrows raise at the scene, and moves his leg a little so Eddie’s foot is touching his leg more. Eddie wiggles his toes in his sock for a second, mouth twitching, but doesn’t seem to mind.

“I didn’t know you could get a cup of ice. Didn’t wanna bother, anyway. They probably have snobby New York businessmen like you making faces at ‘em all the time.” He’s looking to get a small rise out of Eddie, but he just hums all noncommittal. He’s already tuned Richie out. Richie watches his friend’s expression relax for another second, then turns to the screen with a little smile of his own.

After they check out of the hotel the next morning, they have to do what Richie said he’d come along for. The former Kaspbrak residence is a nice little townhouse in a part of Manhattan that leans more towards expensive than affordable. It’s still pretty tight though, smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood where every house looks the same.

“It sure stands out,” Richie observes when the car is in park. Eddie rolls his eyes and steps out, and Richie follows. The sun is too bright when he opens the car door, and Richie squints against it as he hops down onto the road. Eddie’s staring at a house down the sidewalk when Richie rounds the car, his stupid Gucci loafers tapping anxiously against the concrete. “Eddie?”

“This way,” he says, striding down the sidewalk with purpose. Richie follows, glancing around the neighborhood. There are a few people out on walks, but they’re far enough away that no one needs to acknowledge each other. “Myra goes out with her friends for brunch on Fridays. It lasts a few hours, so we have plenty of time, but we should be quick anyway.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Richie didn’t want to be here any longer than Eddie did. The sun was still a little uncomfortably strong and he was starting to sweat a little; or, actually, maybe he was just feeling antsy. Eddie comes to an abrupt stop in front of a townhouse that looks just like the others. Richie waits to follow him up the few steps leading up to the door.

He doesn’t. Actually, he takes a little step back, like the building in front of them is posing an actual threat. Richie steps closer to him, one hand starting to raise up, because Eddie’s gone a little pale and he looks like he might keel over.

“Eds? What’s happening? You okay?” Eddie is so tense, it makes Richie’s shoulders ache. His hand finishes its journey to Eddie’s shoulder, rubbing over it a little in what he hopes is a comforting motion. Eddie’s hand comes up to grasp at Richie’s, even as his gaze never leaves the house. “Hey, you wanna sit down?”

“No,” Eddie says firmly. His hand grips tighter onto Richie’s, grounding himself. He takes a deep breath, then two. “No, I can do this. We just get our stuff and get out, right?”

“Our stuff?” Richie asks curiously. Eddie flushes (Richie really thinks they should get out of the sun soon) and shakes his head.

" _My_ stuff," he corrects. "Hurry up before I decide to leave all my shit." He lets go, and Richie's arm swings back to his side.

Eddie's house is silent besides the quiet humming of the fridge through the wall. It's generously decorated: the walls are covered in pictures and art, and the TV stand is full of knickknacks and those wooden slabs with inspirational quotes carved into them. There are more than a few magazines on the coffee table, and lamps on the stands between two loveseats. Blankets and decorative throw pillows crowd each one, and the carpet looks freshly-vacuumed from the entryway.

It's kind of reminiscent of the old Kaspbrak household, Richie thinks. A little small, a little dark. Not a speck of dust in sight, despite the overwhelming amount of decor. There's this artificially-sweet fragrance in the air, like a women's perfume or a flowery Febreze. It seems a lot like Myra (Sonia) and not at all like Eddie. Richie kind of hates it.

"Take off your shoes," Eddie says, already toeing his off as he flicks a lightswitch. The room is filled with light, but it doesn't make it look any more welcoming—or maybe that's just Richie. "The last thing we want to do is give Myra a stress ulcer, dragging dirt onto the carpet."

"You really think that's the most stressful thing she'll have to deal with right now?" Richie asks, even as he kicks his sneakers off as well. He follows Eddie into the living room, and is pleased when the carpet feels as soft as it looks.

"All my stuff is up here," Eddie says, ignoring him. He leads Richie past the living room, past the kitchen, and past a closed door that's either a bathroom or storage. They go upstairs, the walls decorated with picture frames Richie doesn’t get to look at for now, and stop at a hall closet. It's full of extra towels and sheets and cleaning supplies, and Eddie wiggles two folded cardboard boxes out from under a few pairs of winter boots.

"Your house is... nice," Richie observes, even though he knows it'll fall flat before he even says it. He's right. Eddie huffs as he moves some boxes of envelopes away to find packing tape. "Very upper class. Very married, no kids. You got a guest bedroom-turned-office?"

"No, actually. We have a guest bedroom-turned-bedroom." Eddie leads him further down the hall and into a room that smells much less like the rest of the place. It smells like the rest of the house and looks perfectly tidy, despite Eddie being away for a while. "I sleep in here while Myra takes the master. Get your yucks in while you can."

"Oh man," Richie starts immediately, cracking a smile even though he wants to frown. What the fuck kind of straight married couple uses up two separate bedrooms? "You don't even sleep with your wife?"

"Not if I can help it," Eddie grumbles, quickly tugging the sides of one box apart. Richie grabs the packing tape from his hand and helps him lay it across the flaps so Eddie can flip the box over. "Okay. Here goes."

It’s not a huge box, but it looks like they don’t need one anyway. Eddie strips the bed first, grumbling about how he bought his own sheets so he wouldn’t have to use the floral cotton ones Myra likes. He throws the pillows in there, too, cases and all, and Richie presses them flat so they’ll have more room.

Richie mostly hovers around the room until Eddie opens up a closet and waves Richie over to help get some sleek black garment bags into the box. Eddie throws what Richie assumes to be an expensive suit into the box without looking, and he follows. With the way Eddie drops his coats and shoes straight on top without much care, it’s obvious he just wants to get this done as quickly as possible.

Evidently, Eddie had packed his entire bathroom for Derry, besides some larger bottles of lotion and shower stuff. He threw those into a plastic bag, and Richie carried the box out of the guest room that looked only a little more barren than it was before. Eddie doesn’t look at the walls as he leads them downstairs, but Richie takes his time.

“You don’t want to take any of these?” he asks, eyeing the ample amount of pictures. It’s mostly Myra, or who Richie assumes is Myra. Her with her friends, with her family, at church. Eddie is in a few, and he recognizes Sonia Kaspbrak in a couple (and feels his brows raise at the similarities between the two women). None of Eddie and Myra alone, except… Richie shifts his gaze over to the shiniest of the metallic frames, painted a gaudy rose gold to stand out.

He’d expected Eddie to look unhappy in his wedding photos. He’d expected tense shoulders and a smile of pained resignation. The way Eddie talked about his wife, Richie assumed it was all faked and forced from the start. He’d expected Eddie to look like he was carefully surrendering himself to a relationship of lifelong doom—Instead, looking at the first picture, Eddie looks like the opposite. He looks like he’s getting married.

He has a big grin on his face while he looks at Myra at the altar, standing tall in a pressed black suit and shiny shoes and both of her small hands in his. Myra’s wedding dress is poofy and has so many layers, Richie finds himself looking to see if she’s got any sweat at the back of her neck. She doesn’t; she looks perfectly comfortable. She looks excited.

There’s a photo of their kiss, backed by a clapping priest and a really well-crafted arch covered in a neat arrangement of white roses. Eddie is the one to have taken a step forward, one hand on Myra’s face and the other on her side as their lips lock. Myra has her arms wrapped beneath Eddie’s so she can rest both palms on his shoulder blades. (Richie wonders how that feels, on Myra’s end. To touch Eddie like that.)

There’s a photo of them coming down the aisle, Myra’s bouquet in one hand and the other hooked into Eddie’s elbow as he waves shyly at the people clapping in the pews. There’s a photo of them at the reception, in front of a modest wedding cake and feeding each other the first bites with clumsy laughter.

There’s a photo of their first dance. Eddie’s looking at his wife with soft eyes and a kind smile, his mouth open with half-spoken words Richie will never get to hear. Myra still looks just as giddy as she did at the altar, but she’s much more relaxed with both hands over her husband’s shoulders and his hands resting easily at her waist. If he tries hard enough, Richie can almost imagine them swaying with each other in the dim light.

Richie pictures Eddie’s fingers gently roaming over her side, smoothing idly over the fabric of his wife’s wedding dress. The photo below that one is a snapshot of them kissing again. They look like a happy, newly-married couple, who can’t resist the temptation of smooching under a low spotlight during their very first dance as lifelong partners. They don’t look like the couple who sleep in separate rooms and yell at each other over the phone.

At Richie’s question and sudden silence, Eddie’s stopped a few steps from the first floor to look at him. Richie tears his gaze away from the photo wall in time to see Eddie’s eyes flicker from the pictures to Richie again. His jaw sort of clenches a little, and he definitively moves his gaze back to Richie and doesn’t look away. It makes Richie feel a little small, even though he’s towering over his friend even more than usual.

“Are you looking at my wedding pictures," Eddie says.

"No. What?" Richie says. He shifts the box in his grip. "What's a wedding?"

"Oh my god," Eddie says, and turns to make it down the rest of the stairs. "No, Richie, I don't want any _pictures."_

Richie winces at that. Eddie spits the word out like he's allergic, like the word "pictures" is coated in a nasty venom or peanuts or whatever the hell else can't eat. He almost wants to apologize, even though it really isn't his fault for having wandering eyes, but Eddie dips out of view by the time Richie’s down the rest of the steps. His little footsteps against the carpet sound angry. Yikes.

He's looking through the kitchen cabinets when Richie meets him there, grabbing a few specific mugs and hydroflasks. He grabs some dishtowels too, and Richie sets the box down so Eddie can layer the mugs between wads of the small towels.

"Uh, anything else?" Richie asks, and Eddie huffs once before closing the cabinets. He glances around the kitchen, then looks into the living room. After a second of contemplation, Eddie shakes his head.

"All of my stuff was in my room, mostly. I'm all good. Let's go." And they leave. There isn't much Eddie can do to help, but Richie doesn't need it anyway. He fits the box into the backseat of the rental without much effort.

"You sure you don't need anything else? Not even a cool table or something?" Richie asks, even though Eddie’s already hopping into the passenger's seat. He steals some dishtowels from the top to make sure the corners won't scratch against the leather seats, then moves around to the driver's side. "I was expecting to carry more."

"Maybe what you expected isn't always going to turn out, Richie," Eddie bites. Richie makes a face and takes a second the dig the keys from his pocket before starting the car. "Put on your seatbelt."

"Hold your horses." He gets the air on, but doesn't make any move to take the car out of park. Instead, Richie shifts in his seat to look at his best friend. Eddie's glaring at the dash. "What'd the glovebox ever do to you?"

"Can we just go?" Eddie asks. Richie shakes his head, and Eddie tries to cross his arms. He sort of fails when his residual limb doesn't offer anything, and his arm falls back to his lap instead. He doesn't meet Richie's eyes.

"I don't want to drive with you sulking next to me. It'll throw off my turns. So… what's up?" Richie asks, crossing his right leg onto the seat to get more comfortable. "You're being a grump all of a sudden. What'd I do?"

"You didn't—Ugh," it's Eddie's turn to shake his head, and then he looks up at Richie with a big ol' frowny face. "You didn't have to come with me." Richie blinks.

"Uh, sorry to say, buddy, it's a little too late to _not_ ask for my help." He nods to the box behind him, and Eddie rolls his eyes and looks away again. This time he's caught himself in the rearview mirror.

"I _know_ that, it's just… I don't know, isn't it weird? Like, we don't see each other for twenty-something years, and we kill an evil clown, and I lose an arm, and now I'm asking you to help me with a divorce?" Richie can't see all of Eddie's profile, but he frowns again. "I don't know. It's one thing after another, all the time."

"Well, yeah," Richie offers, "that's how everything goes, isn't it?"

"That's…" It doesn't seem to help. "I don't even know what I'm talking about. You shouldn't have to be here."

"I offered to be here, Eds," Richie reminds him.

"But you—I didn't want to share this with you," he says.

"Oh." Richie… shouldn't be surprised. His face must fall, because when Eddie looks at him he tenses up.

"No, I meant—Shit. I meant the house," Eddie struggles, running his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I'm being fucking ungrateful. I want to _be_ here with you, but not… _here_ here. Not at the place I wasn't myself."

"Oh," Richie says again. He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the place, but he finds he's already lost track of which building it is. They all look the same.

Was Eddie like that before Derry? The same as everyone else, completely conventionally "normal" and blending in with whatever uptight neighbors and coworkers he had? The thought barely makes sense; Eddie is Eddie. Though Richie supposes he doesn't know the Eddie he was, when he wasn't with the Losers.

"I wasn't myself," Eddie repeats, following Richie's line of sight to settle on the house Richie assumes they just came out of. He turns to look at Eddie again as he continues, "Especially not… I mean, the guy in my wedding photos. That shouldn't have been me."

"Eds," Richie starts, but he doesn't know what to say. He thinks about the photos, how hopeful Eddie had looked. How relaxed.

"I wish I could say I knew from the start that it wouldn't work. I knew she was like my mother, but not in the—the bad ways. Not in the ways I couldn't make excuses for, you know?" Eddie shifts, trying to get more comfortable, then decides to pull his legs up onto the seat. "It just happened."

"I'm sorry, man," Richie consoles him softly. He can't imagine what it must have been like, marrying someone with every intention of loving them, and then not being able to. He wonders how long they shared a bed before Eddie finally moved to the guest bedroom. "Seriously. That's… it sounds really rough."

"It was. I guess it… I mean, people always say mistakes should be a learning experience, right? I can learn from this," Eddie says, and Richie shuts that shit down _real_ quick.

"Woah, woah, woah, hey," he interjects, placing a hand on Eddie's shoulder without meaning to. He keeps it there, and Eddie looks at him with wide eyes. "Dude, it's not your fault. You weren't the common denominator here."

"But I was," Eddie defends, though he doesn't shake Richie's hand off. "I was—The guy who made whatever mistakes he made to end up in that… situation. That was me. It shouldn't have been, but it was. I could've left earlier, I knew something was wrong, but I chose to stay. It was my fault."

"It doesn't have to be." Eddie looks exhausted. He looks devastated. He looks like he's aged another unreasonable amount of years without the Losers at his side. Richie hates it. "You said it yourself. You weren't you. And even if you were, it—None of what you had to deal with wasn't your fault either way. You weren't the person who decided to make you unhappy."

Now, Richie's seen Eddie cry. He cried when they met for the first time, when Richie made fun of his gelled hair on the playground at recess. He cried in the sixth grade, when middle school proved to be meaner than elementary. He cried countless times on the nights when home became too much, when he took refuge in the Tozier household. He cried when he announced his move to New York, and before his car ride out of Derry.

But Richie's never seen Eddie cry like this. It's a cry that fills his eyes with liquid fear and lowers his brow into a hard line and forces his jaw to twitch like his teeth are aching. It’s a cry that builds in his chest and bursts from his throat. Richie can feel the familiar sting in the back of his eyes, and he knows he should try to keep it together, but he’s always acted on emotions rather than logic.

He slides his grip over Eddie’s shoulder to hook around his neck and tug him into a hug over the center console. Eddie’s hand twists into Richie’s shirt immediately, clinging onto him and letting Richie hook his head over his shoulder. Eddie lets out a strangled sound as the first tear falls, and gasps when more of them roll down to stain his cheeks. Richie doesn’t let him pull back to wipe them away, because he starts crying, too.

* * *

Eddie tries to convince Richie to go back to LA while he waits for the divorce to play out, but in return, Richie asks him if he could, hypothetically, open a jar by himself. Eddie’s face scrunches up, but he lets Richie find a nice apartment on Airbnb that they can stay in during the waiting period.

The only one they can find is a large one bed, one bath, but their other choices aren’t too great in comparison. They manage to book it for the evening somehow, and spend their off time fucking around in different little hole-in-the-walls around the city. Richie learns Eddie’s a slut for macarons, which he exclaims out loud right there in the bakery. Eddie punches him in the arm for it, and punches him again when all Richie does is laugh.

When they get to the apartment, the first thing Richie notices is that it smells a little weird—like the guests before them had smuggled a dog in, or something. They store their things in the empty bedroom closet after Eddie’s poked around in it, though Eddie’s eyeing the provided dressers and clothes hangers like he fully intends to utilize them when they've been wiped down to his satisfaction.

The couch and chairs are leather, and the laundry room looks clean. Eddie makes Richie vacuum the rugs and carpets while he sanitized the furniture and cleans out the provided Brita filter. He fills it up while Richie cleans out a few glasses, because Eddie insists the one bottle of water he’d bullied Richie into drinking earlier isn’t enough to keep him hydrated. Richie makes a joke about his piss being clear as ever, and Eddie’s entire face scrunches up.

Richie ends up washing the sheets and pillowcases, too. Eddie pops in to toss the naked pillows onto the shelf, next to the cheap detergent. He also washes his pillowcases and spare sheets he’d stripped off his old bed, and Richie tugs them onto the mattress for him once they’re dried.

“Just get Taco Bell, man,” Richie urges around dinnertime, laying the provided bedsheets on the couch arm to use later. Eddie is leaning back against the opposite end, his right arm against the back of it so his residual limb isn’t squished. He brings his legs up to let Richie take a seat. Richie would have gone without washing everything, since he was the one using the sheets, but there was some dog fur on the bottom half and he knew Eddie would have thrown a fit if he’d seen it.

“Did you really just tell me to DoorDash Taco Bell? Do you eat at Taco Bell? Do you know how disgusting their food is?” Eddie asks, and Richie fiddles with the TV remote. He hovers the selector over Disney+ in consideration, but then Eddie manages to stretch a leg out all the way across Richie to lightly kick his right hand. Netflix it is. As the menu loads, Eddie shoves his feet into Richie’s lap without asking.

“It’s not like you’ve offered anything, _señor,_ so I vote Taco Bell. Quick, easy, I have a usual. Let’s make this slumber party a fiesta!” He hasn’t actually had Taco Bell in nearly a year, but Eddie’s mouth turns into an uneven line and Richie thinks it’s funny. He starts clicking through the recommendations with a laugh, and he’s absolutely delighted to see that the guests before them were in the middle of watching some edgy-looking anime. “We could do Chipotle.”

“Neither of us are twenty years old, even though you act like it. Not Chipotle. Burgers? Good burgers, I mean, not greasy fucking oil cakes.” Richie agrees, scrolling past the anime, and his hand finds its way to Eddie’s ankle while he recites his order. Eddie gets himself a veggie burger with what sounds like an entire salad squished into it. Richie orders a normal cheeseburger with bacon and extra cheese.

“Fries?” Richie asks. Eddie murmurs in agreement and makes sure fries are included in the order. He says nothing about Richie absentmindedly fondling the soft skin of his mid-calf through his cotton socks. Richie adds, “Shakes?”

To support the idea, he wiggles a little, and Eddie snorts despite saying, “I’m not getting a shake. Do you know how much sugar goes into those things? I read they rarely even clean shake machines. Same with ice cream machines and ice machines and all. What flavor do you want?”

Richie tries to see how much the order costs when Eddie’s finished everything, but Eddie pointedly stretches his arm out so he can’t reach it. He gets his hand square on Eddie’s face before he finally exclaims, “Quit it, asshole! Just get the next one.” He’s still grumbling about oils and dirt in his pores by the time Richie’s relaxed back in his seat with a satisfied chuckle.

When the food comes, Eddie lifts his legs without bending his knees. He snickers when Richie has to knock them away when he stands, like the world’s most fleshy turnstile. He thinks Eddie already gave a tip through the app, but he passes the delivery guy a ten anyway.

Eddie sits up properly when Richie brings the food over. Wordlessly, Richie sticks a straw in his strawberry shake and hands it to Eddie. He takes it without complaint, the way Richie knew he would, and takes a long sip. He watches Richie over the straw with round eyes, then makes him stand up again to find plates they can use. He gives the shake back to Richie when it’s a little more than half-empty, with the thumb on his free hand pressed against the roof of his mouth to get rid of his brainfreeze.

Eddie does most of the cleaning up after their Netflix movie ends, and Richie sets up the sheets over the couch while Eddie takes a shower. Steam fills the hall when he lets the door open to apply whatever moisturizers he needs for his residual limb, and Richie decides he likes the scent of the soap he uses. He thinks Eddie also has a facial routine, considering the amount of skincare products he’d swiped from his old house’s (house’s, not home’s) medicine cabinet.

When Eddie finally comes out, he looks tired in a content way. Sleepy, relaxed. He has a long-sleeved shirt on, the left sleeve hanging loose, and Richie assumes he has a compression sock underneath it. Eddie’s shirt is long enough that it reaches halfway down the shorts he’s wearing underneath. Richie hasn’t taken a shower, but he’s changed into a soft shirt and replaced his jeans with sweatpants while Eddie was hogging the bathroom.

“Hey, bud. Ready for your bedtime story?” Richie asks, and Eddie rolls his eyes before turning into the kitchen. The backs of his thighs are pointedly ignored by Richie as he steps behind the breakfast bar. Richie slips past the kitchen to find the pillows in the laundry room and stops to fondle them a little bit. He finds the hardest ones and brings them out to fit the clean cotton pillowcases over them.

“I was going to say goodnight, but now I don’t think you deserve it,” he hears, along with the clink of a glass hitting the sink. Eddie seems determined to wash everything before using them, which is expected. “You want water?”

“The only thing I thirst for is you, Eds,” Richie says sweetly, and Eddie moves back into the living room with one cold glass of water in his hand and another pressed between his forearm and chest. It looks a little precarious, and Eddie looks uncomfortable by the chilliness pinned against his pec. “Thanks, man.”

Richie takes the one in Eddie’s hand, laughs at the bewildered-slash-furious look he receives, then takes the other glass, too. Eddie ends up wishing him goodnight after all when Richie hands him one of the glasses again. He barely waits for his response before he’s slinking into the hallway and closing the bedroom door. It’s the quietest night they’ve had since Eddie wakes up, and Richie tries not to mind.

“Cashews? Why cashews?” Richie asks when they visit Whole Foods the next day. He’s leaning against the cart while Eddie scoops nuts into a jar from his house. He’s wearing another long-sleeved shirt. When Eddie’s finished scooping, he steps back over to Richie and gestures for him to hold out a hand.

“Eat this with me,” Eddie says, shaking some cashews into Richie’s palm. He puts the open jar into the cart and takes a few pieces back for himself. There’s a joke there somewhere, something about nuts, and Richie almost gets to it. But then Eddie says, “If I start having an allergic reaction, I forgot my EpiPen at the apartment. So just call an ambulance.”

“Wait, _what?”_ Eddie downs his cashews in one go, and Richie’s so tense he’s stood up ramrod straight from where he’d been slouched over the bar of the cart. Eddie chews, swallows, and looks at Richie in consideration. A beat passes. “Eds?”

“I’m not allergic to cashews,” Eddie says calmly, reaching for another. Richie panics and tips his head back to eat the entirety of the small pile in his hand. “Richie!”

“What the fuck, man? You can’t just fuckin’—gffh—hol’ on,” it turns out to be more cashews than he thought, and he takes a moment to chew, “Why would you do that? Holy shit, you could’ve died!”

“But I didn’t,” Eddie points out, which is true, but very much _not_ the point. Richie feels like he’s aged another twenty-some years. “I don’t think any of my allergies are real. I might be lactose intolerant, but other than that, it’s free reign.”

“Free reign? You could’ve gone into, like, cardiac arrest! In a _Whole Foods,”_ Richie stresses, leaning over the cart again and gesturing to the space around them. Eddie leans back a little, all wide-eyed and perfectly confused, like he did nothing wrong. “Eddie. Don’t scare me like that, dude! I think I was about to faint.”

Eddie stares at him for a little longer and Richie feels his face flush. There must have been some sort of embarrassing desperation on his face to keep Eddie from dying, because Eddie searches his expression with a little twitch of his brow before nodding.

“Whatever. Sorry,” he says, a little grumbly as he toes at the floor. Richie suddenly feels a lot like an asshole for no reason. Maybe because it feels like Eddie’s suddenly closed himself off, glancing around the aisle with faux nonchalance.

His hands quickly drop to his sides and Eddie relaxes a little, which is when Richie clears his throat and leans his forearms on the cart handle. Eddie’s hand is wrapped around his residual limb, his thumb rubbing over the knot in his sleeve like a worry stone.

“No, fuck, it's okay. I didn't mean… I totally freaked out, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m sorry. Just… even if you don’t have allergies,” he started, but Eddie was already nodding along, still looking away. “Like, I’ll be here for your mid-life crisis, dude, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch you have a seizure just ‘cause you got cocky and ate something you’re _actually_ allergic to.”

“Yeah. But you… know why, right? You know why I need to?” Richie did know. Not firsthand, obviously, but if he was in Eddie’s shoes—lied to for all his life, first by one woman and then by another, then becoming aware at the perfect point in his life for a midlife crisis—he’d feel a little reckless himself.

“I know,” Richie promises. Eddie nods again, and they stand in silence for a few seconds. Shit. Richie hates the silence. He clears his throat for the second time in two minutes, standing up straight. "So then, what else are you allergic to? Pizza rolls? Omelettes?" The corner of Eddie's mouth perks up, and Richie feels accomplished.

“Oh, omelettes. Let’s get eggs next.” Eddie turns, hooking two fingers onto the edge of the cart to lead Richie along. They chose an uneven one on accident, of course, so the wheel makes funny noises as it rolls. Eddie glances back for a moment. “Uh, thank you. For, like, looking out for me.”

“I'm looking out for you all the time, buddy. You know how easy it is to lose a guy your height in the crowd?" he asks, clearing the rest of the stiffness away, and Eddie kicks the cart a little in retaliation.

"Yeah? You're a fucking Bigfoot sighting, except people actually _look_ for Bigfoot. Get out of my face for two fucking seconds, maybe," Eddie shoots over his shoulder, and Richie laughs loud enough to fill the aisle. He spots salted vegan cassava chips just then and tosses two family-sized bags into the cart without slowing down, a big grin on his face.

“Look at us, being healthy. I’m gonna eat all this in ten minutes.” And Eddie snorts, and Richie smiles as he trails after his best friend like a lost puppy. Eddie doesn't seem to mind at all.

Richie manages to pay for the groceries by waiting in line and sending Eddie to grab fancy coconut water, then slipping into a shorter line while he’s gone. Eddie throws a fuss as he pays for two bottles of coconut water and an organic chocolate bar he grabbed from the display above the conveyor belt, so Richie lets him pay for gas on the way back to the apartment.

“Throw some bacon on there and it’s an Elvis sandwich,” Richie says when Eddie flips his creation in its pan. Eddie makes a noise of disgust, but looks pleased at the golden brown of the bread (he almost chose whole wheat, but Richie bullied him into grabbing a good quality white bread). He wanted to practice cooking with his one hand, which Richie thought was funny because Eddie admitted he never got into cooking in the first place.

“Elvis was a rockstar. His tastebuds were probably all fucked up," Eddie replies in distaste. Richie sidles up next to him to scoop some more butter from the stick Eddie left by the stove, and adds it to the pan. It sizzles a little too loudly as it melts, and Eddie turns the heat down. “And bacon is a whole ‘nother step.”

“Yeah, well, it’s worth it. You ever had a grilled cheese with bacon?” When Eddie looks at him, Richie does a loud, Italian chef’s kiss. He’s taken out the organic maple-honey-whatever-bacon from the fridge and has it on the counter. “Perfecto.”

“ _Perfecto_ is Spanish, dumbass.” Richie makes a teetering motion with his hand, _same-same,_ as he opens a cabinet to look for a cutting board. Eddie frowns and says, “No, not the same. Are you cooking?”

“Bacon and cheese omelette, Eddie, baby. You like?” Richie finds a nice wooden board, and takes it to the sink to give it a wash. He washes a knife, too, and moves back to the counter to chop up the bacon. He goes to take just a few strips off, but then decides he likes bacon bits anyway and just starts cutting up the entire stack all at once.

“Omelettes are breakfast food,” Eddie points out, and Richie shrugs.

“Yeah, and I’m in a breakfast mood,” he replies, and that’s all the goading it takes.

“Put mushrooms in mine. And chives.” Eddie keeps glancing over at Richie’s work, and turns off the heat. He glances around the kitchen once, and moves to grab one of the plates they used last night. “And tomatoes. Please.”

“Giving me a real workout, Eds,” Richie says, even as he finishes with the bacon and moves to the fridge a minute later. Eddie cuts his banana and peanut butter sandwich straight down the middle, and settles himself against the counter with one half while Richie shuffles through their groceries.

* * *

He drives Eddie to his first New York physical therapy appointment a few days later. There are little chairs to the side, the squeaky ones they have at every clinic, and Richie slumps in it while he watches Eddie stretch and wince and stretch some more.

He’d like to say he keeps an eye on the physical trainer and Eddie’s expressions to make sure his friend isn’t being pushed too far. As it is, however, his eyes keep wandering to Eddie’s jaw and biceps and chest straining at a particularly difficult task. He does keep his gaze above the belt, because he’s a gentleman like that, but he’s not entirely sure it’s any better to be staring at the single drop of sweat running down the side of Eddie’s neck.

Eddie’s using his residual limb to stretch a long rubber rope while his physical therapist, a nice woman named Jenny, takes notes for herself. Richie is intensely focused on the way Eddie’s right hand is gripping the handle when his phone starts vibrating, and he looks away to dig it out of his pocket before Eddie can catch him staring.

“Who is it?” Eddie asks, pausing in his exercise to watch Richie. Jenny glances up at them, and Eddie continues his workout while Richie checks. It’s Steve, of course, and Richie sighs as he stands. It’s been a long-time coming.

“My manager.” Richie has only sent a few texts to Steve to let him know he’s alive, and that was when he’d reserved the Airbnb. He’d mostly ignored the texts he got in response, but just from skimming he caught a glimpse of an awful lot of swear words. “He just can't get enough of me. I should probably answer this time. You good here?”

“I’m good. Don’t—” Richie thinks Eddie is about to ask him not to take too long, but he cuts himself off before starting again, “Don’t worry about it. Try not to lose your job.”

“Not much to lose,” Richie chirps, mostly joking, and answers the phone when he’s near the door. It swings closed behind him as he politely answers, “Yellow?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you know how many people think you’re fucking dead? No Tweets, no Instagram posts, dropped phone calls,” Steve rattles off less-than politely. Richie makes his way down the hall and finds a designated smoking balcony with a seating area. “All I get is a fucking ‘I’m okay, TTYL’? You give me a fucking _TTYL?”_

“Okay, first of all, I’m alright.” Richie makes himself cozy in one of the chairs there, propping his feet up on the balcony railing. “Second of all, it’s a long story. Got any time to chat?”

“Between beating off Twitter reporters with a fucking stick and pulling my hair out whenever you leave me on read?” Steve spits. “This better be good, Tozier.”

Richie sticks to the story that the other Losers told with dry eyes and steady voices: one of their friends attempted suicide, and they reunited in Maine to suppport him. Then another friend got trapped in an old, _old_ house when it collapsed, and got hospitalized.

One important thing to note: Richie is not, in fact, the other Losers. By the end of the story, he certainly doesn’t have dry eyes or a steady voice, and he thinks to himself, _How in the fuck did everyone else keep it together?_

“And Stan’s alive, and-and Eddie is here, and he’s sweating. I love my friends, and they love me, and they think I’m funny,” he wails into the phone, cradling it in both hands like it’s a firstborn. “They love me, Steve…”

“I know, Rich, I know. I’m, uh, happy for you,” Steve offers, which only makes Richie wail more. He’s sure there’s snot all up in his mouth, and he aggressively wipes it away with his forearm.

Richie would love to say he was mentally present for most of the call, but he hangs up with a sniffle and a promise and a million thank yous to his manager, who agreed profusely when Richie cried about restarting his career and wouldn’t stop ugly-sobbing for three minutes straight. At least it was productive.

Steve is never one for gentleness, so he latched onto the business side of the call right away. He ordered Richie to start writing some new material right away while he fired the ghostwriters and went on to “make some calls, dig up some connections.” He also demanded Richie start replying to his texts like a decent human being, and take care of himself, and the call ended soon after that.

First matter of business, he has to clean himself up. Steve rightly assumed he’s still a mess. Richie makes sure to wash his face and hands and forearm in the restroom. He ends up taking a piss, too, since he’s there, and dutifully washes his hands again.

He wants to call Stan, he’s so excited, but he’d be at work right now. Richie sends him an unflattering selfie instead: It’s taken from his waist as he looks down at the camera, so all his chins are on full display. _Show me yours?_ he captions it, with a pink and sparkly heart emoji. Stan sends a thumbs down emoji in response.

Second, get back on the grid. He’s drafting the Tweet in his head as he bounces through the halls, finding his way back to Eddie’s room easily enough and pushing in without knocking. Eddie and Jenny look at him from the uncomfortable-looking massage table, and Eddie’s expression raises into a smile right away from where he’s lying down. Richie’s face flushes at the attention, and he huffs like he ran back.

“Big clinic,” he says, a smile on his face. Jenny just smiles and continues stretching Eddie’s residual limb, and Eddie waves with his one hand. “Sorry, Eds, booty call took longer than expected. Plus I had to take a leak.”

“We didn’t need to know that. Whatever, you were only gone for, like, ten minutes? Fifteen?” Eddie’s cheek is pressed against the massage table as he follows Richie with his gaze. He turns back to Jenny when the man takes a seat. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“What, you didn’t miss me? Every minute we’re apart feels like an _eternity,_ Eddie my love,” Richie coos, taking his phone out from his pocket and opening Twitter. Maybe typing things out would make it easier to figure out what to say.

“Shut up.” Before Eddie could say any more, Jenny finishes up and helps him upright. Richie continues to type, delete, and type again. Maybe a few emojis would lighten up the message?

“I recommend trying these stretches once daily,” Jenny instructs, “but stop right away if it starts to become too much. Don’t overwork yourself.” She and Eddie talk a bit more before he’s hopping off the massage table.

“Ready to go?” Richie asks, saving the Tweet to his drafts for now as he stands and moves to hold the door open. He and Eddie thank Jenny on the way out, and start making their way out of the clinic. The halls are empty, besides a doctor and a nurse chatting as they walk in the opposite direction. The pairs smile politely at each other as they pass, then Richie and Eddie are alone again.

“What did you and your manager talk about? Did you tell him you’re staying with me?” Eddie tries and fails to act casual. Richie pretends he doesn’t recognize the concern in his friend’s voice for the sake of avoiding making Eddie defensive. “He isn’t mad, is he? Do you have to go back to LA?”

“Hey, slow down,” Richie cuts in when Eddie’s voice gets a little tighter. He stops walking and Eddie spins to face him, a frown on his face. “I’m not going anywhere. My tour’s already cancelled, and Steve isn’t going to pull me away anytime soon. He’s just glad I’m not—” Richie almost makes a joke about being dead in a ditch somewhere, but thinks better of it, “He’s just glad I’m all good. No biggie.”

“No biggie? What about your job? Your house? You have to go back eventually.” Eddie’s voice is pointed, but Richie knows better. Eddie’s looking off to the side, glaring at the floor. “I don’t want to keep you from important things you have to do.”

“You’re an important thing I have to do,” Richie says. Eddie snaps his head up to look at him, bewildered, and Richie just about jumps out of his skin. “No, I meant, like—Jesus. I meant you’re my _priority._ Man, I’m a comedian, and I live alone, and I don’t make a crazy amount of money but it’s enough that I don’t really need a lot of it. I seriously don’t care about my job right now.”

“What, like driving me around, grocery shopping with me, doing _nothing_ is any better?” Eddie tenses, like he plans to start a fight just to convince Richie he isn’t worth taking the time off. Thing is, Eddie Kaspbrak is worth everything. It still stuns Richie how no one else seems to realize it.

“Yeah,” Richie answers, and it seems to take Eddie by total surprise. As if Richie’s life was any good without him or the others. He wants to shrink in on himself because this is about to be kind of sincere, but Eddie needs to know. He looks two breaths away from throwing a fit. “Taking care of you _is_ better. I, like, care about you, Eds. Sue me if I want to spend time with my best friend over hanging out with lame, half-sane people in LA. I’ve had twenty-something years of that shit already.”

“Oh,” Eddie replies after a few seconds of staring. He turns a little red, and Richie’s mouth curls up at the sight. He argues a little more, softly, “You probably have perishables in your fridge you need to throw out.”

“Do I _look_ like I eat vegetables?” Richie says, snorting. He does, but he’s sure none of the Losers would bet on it. He should probably have Steve break in to clear that stuff out, though. Eddie’s face scrunches up, then he swivels on his heel and starts to march forward.

“Hurry up, dumbass, we’re crowding the hallway,” he grumbles in forfeit.

“We’re the only ones here,” Richie laughs, and moves to keep up with him.

They decide to go out for brunch, and Eddie points out a little sandwich place he hasn’t gone to in a while. Their chalkboard menu says breakfast has ended, but Eddie orders an eggs benedict without looking up at it. Richie expects the cashier to point out the time, but instead the young lady smiles and goes,

“Per usual, right?” She presses a couple buttons, then cranes her neck a little to look at Richie. He orders the first sandwich he sees, something marked with a few yellow stars and titled a “House Favorite!” They order drinks as well, before the cashier rattles off their total and turns to relay the orders to the back of house. Richie plans on teasing Eddie about getting special, late breakfast privileges, until Eddie slides a five dollar bill into the tip jar and Richie understands why the cashier likes him so much.

“You’re really focused on your phone,” Eddie observes once they’re across from each other at a two-person table. It’s tucked into the corner, right next to one of the shop’s large, tinted windows, and Eddie politely avoids staring at everyone passing by. He’d taken the seat against the wall, where his residual limb is mostly out of sight from the public. Richie wonders if this is his usual seat, or if he means to hide his injury on purpose.

“You millenials and your technologicals,” Richie says as a gravelly old man. He props an elbow on the table to rest his chin in his palm, and looks up at Eddie. “You jealous my attention is elsewhere?”

“You’re annoying,” Eddie says, but lightly nudges Richie’s ankle beneath the table. Richie nudges him back in the same spot. “I was just wondering. If all it takes is your phone to get you to stop talking, then by all means.”

“It’ll take more than that to shut me up, Eds,” he teases, sliding his sneakers against Eddie’s dumb Gucci loafers so they were toe-to-toe. Idly, he thinks, _Ha. Our shoes are kissing right now._ Out loud, he says, “Steve wanted me to make a comeback Tweet. All the medias think I’m doing, like, every single drug.”

“All the medias?” Eddie asks. “Drugs?”

“All the medias,” Richie insists. “Every single drug.”

“Huh. I heard you made a pretty dramatic exit.” Eddie is making fun, but there’s a bit of sympathy there. Yeah, forgetting the first ten minutes of his set and talking about how he’d just puked offstage (“Just ‘cause I wanted to, you guys, I wasn’t _nervous_ or anything,”) and then stumbling through the rest of it was a bummer; but it wasn’t like he could take it back, anyway.

“Yeah, well. You crashed your car, I puked and bombed the first part of my set in a super fancy theater. Fun times all around,” he jokes, pretending he isn’t starting to get flustered over it. “So, uh, I just gotta Tweet and let people know I’m still kickin’. I’ve been trying to figure out what to say.”

"Just keep it simple," Eddie suggests, lightly kicking Richie's shoes in rhythm. Left, right, left, right. _Smooch, smooch, smooch, smooch._ "Or if you want to cater to your audience, make it unfunny: 'Something, something, booty call, something, something, drowning in pussy, cheating on my girlfriend.’"

"Yowza. I think I'm rubbing off on you there, Eddie Spaghetti."

"Did you just say yowza? No one says yowza."

Eddie's smiling a little, but for once, Richie takes a second to smile back. This is exactly what he talked to Steve about. He didn't want to have to joke about sex and women, and he didn't like that that kind of lowball humor was what he was known for. Was this how Eddie felt watching his show? What a fucking bummer.

"Richie?" Eddie's smile slips off his face at the lack of response he gets. Just then, the cashier swiftly makes her way to their table and drops off their food on a tray, effectively cutting Eddie off. There's a counter right near the register with a sign designating it as the Pick Up area, but the cashier must enjoy the extra movement while she's stuck hanging around the same spot all shift. They thank her when she leaves.

"Richie, you okay?" Eddie asks when she's gone, leaning forward over his food. He doesn’t get very far, being short and all. "Hey, sorry, that joke sucked."

"No, it's not—Well, that joke did suck, but so does your mother." Richie wonders how Eddie can fit that much concern into two eyebrows. “Your eyebrows are big. Like fuzzy little caterpillars. That’s unrelated to why I’m feeling bad.”

"What’s up with you?" Eddie urges, and Richie looks at him thoughtfully.

"I don't like my jokes. They're not my jokes," Richie says.

"Okay. Me neither," Eddie says.

"Me and Steve were talking about rebuilding my brand." Richie's hands are around his phone, but he moves one to grab a napkin from the table's metal dispenser. "Like, writing my own material and shit."

"Oh. Hey, that's really awesome." It comes easy, like Eddie actually means it, and Richie feels kind of pathetic when he fishes for compliments, but he does it anyway.

"Yeah? You think I can pull it off?" He isn't looking at Eddie, instead letting himself focus on tearing the napkin into nice, even strips. "I haven't done it in a while and Steve wanted me to get to it right away, but I don’t even know how to start."

"You'll pull it off. I know you will." Eddie sounds so sure as he picks up his fork. He glances at the butter knife he has laying next to his plate, but decides to try cutting his eggs benedict with the side of his fork in lieu of trying to use one hand for both utensils. "You're funny."

"Oh yeah?" Richie drops the ribbons of napkin and reaches across the table, hand hovering over the butter knife in inquiry. Eddie shakes his head. Richie retreats and grabs his sandwich instead, which is already cut into halves. Eddie continues cutting at his food.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t be friends with you if you weren’t. Your jokes are your only appeal.” A pause. “When they’re good.” Richie laughs, and Eddie grins down at his food.

“Aw, you think I’m worth having around,” Richie coos, taking a bite of his sandwich. Eddie glances up at him, and the way his big brown eyes shine through his lashes has Richie’s chewing stop.

“Because you are,” Eddie says, like it’s a simple fact and not something Richie thinks about every single day. “Help me cut my eggs benedict.”

* * *

Richie officially starts writing his own material that night. Eddie is wandering around the kitchen, having ended a phone call with his higher-ups a few minutes before. Richie tried not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to listen in when all that separated the kitchen from the living room was a counter. From what he overheard, it was a simple checkup call to see how Eddie was doing. With the one less arm, and all.

Richie used to write his own stuff. Way back when, in the college days, where fast food and table bussing gave way to fifteen-minute comedy shows at clubs where no one knew his name. He got a lot of laughs, he remembers, but it never gave way to anything until he was scouted by some other lanky white guy looking to recruit young comedians.

He’d like to say he fought to have his own material featured, but it was easy to let other people take the reigns. To have a crew willing to do all his work for him, to let him relax and fuck around in the writer’s room until eventually he moved on to fucking around elsewhere. The stuff got less funny over the years, but it wasn’t like he thought he could do any better. Who was Richie to think he could whip up better jokes than a whole group of people who needed the job?

Now, though, he wanted to be good. Even if it was a little rocky at first, he didn’t want his shows to keep attracting the boring, unfunny losers he was stuck with now. His friends knew he was funny. Steve knew he was funny, sometimes, even when Richie was aiming to make him exasperated or red in the face. He could be good again. Richie thought he deserved to be a friend worth having; but more than anything, he didn’t want the Losers to figure out he was actually a lazy idiot who lost the only thing they kept him around for.

“You get anything done?” Eddie asks from over the breakfast bar, leaning over it. And really, the open concept was standard for apartments, but having to look at the guy every time his eyes wandered across the room was pretty distracting. Richie peers up at him from the couch he’s taking up the entirety of, and Eddie’s face twists. “Oh. You look like you just shit yourself.”

“What?” Richie barks out a surprised laugh, pretending to be nonchalant. He glances down at his blank Google Doc, and tips the screen of his laptop down so Eddie wouldn’t see the stark white reflection of the empty page in his glasses. “No, I’m just at a wall. I can’t think of anything funny.”

“You’ve been at it for, like, half an hour,” Eddie offers helpfully, though it just makes Richie deflate. Eddie turns around, and Richie hears the knock of wood against the counter before Eddie walks around the bar with a cutting board. It’s filled with fresh-cut produce, and Richie’s never been more excited to see chopped strawberries in his life. “Here, take a break.”

“Holy shit. You need help?” Richie asks, starting to stand, but the other man shakes his head. Instead, Richie swings his legs over so Eddie has room to sit, and holds his hands out in caution while Eddie gingerly sets the cutting board on his own lap. “This looks good.”

“Yeah, it’s this new food trend called ‘fruit’. Wouldn’t expect you to know about it.” He relaxes into the couch when the cutting board is balanced on his legs. Richie criss-crosses his legs as he faces Eddie, leaning against the back of the couch. He plucks a piece of mango from the board. “How much did you get done?”

“Oh, loads,” Richie says through the fruit, ignoring the laptop he’d very carelessly set down onto the floor. He grabs a pinch of blueberries next, and tips his head back to drop all of them into his mouth. “I was so productive.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it if the jokes don’t come naturally to you,” Eddie says as he takes a toothpick. Richie didn’t even notice those. Eddie spears a piece of banana for himself. He gives it some thought, then stacks a strawberry on top of it before eating the fruit together. His voice is a little muffled when he adds, “You can’t force good content, I don’t think.”

“Naw, but I can try. I can beat it with a stick for half an hour.” Eddie rolls his eyes, and spears a strawberry and a couple berries next. He holds it out, and Richie takes it on instinct. Eddie grabs another toothpick then, and continues eating.

“You got this, man. It’s just words. You’re good at those.” Richie stares at Eddie for a few seconds, but his friend is busy spearing a combination of mangos and raspberries next. He looks at the toothpick again, the quarter of a strawberry mingling casually with a few blueberries. Richie eats the fruit in one bite, then uses the toothpick to steal the pieces Eddie keeps going for to make him yell about it.

He’s up late writing. He took the time to fuck around with Eddie for a few hours, but once they were getting ready for bed, he was too hyped up to put it off anymore. Eddie left him with another glass of water before going into the bedroom, and Richie thanked him over the top of his laptop as he typed. The living room was lit only by a dim lamp beside the couch and the brightness of Richie’s laptop.

It’s only when Eddie wakes up that Richie notices the time. It’s just nearing two in the morning, and he’s in the middle of a really good bit about the time he’d gotten lost in Washington and ended up joining a tour group stoned out of his mind. He’s interrupted by the bedroom door swinging open and the creak of the apartment floorboards down the hall.

He looks up, half-paranoid that there’s a robber or something, because that’s what two AM does to him. Fortunately for Richie, it’s only his friend, who has tired eyes and a slouch Richie rarely sees Eddie have. Their gazes meet, and Eddie glances at the laptop before looking at Richie.

“You’re still writing?” he asks, sounding a little more than exhausted. Richie squints a little and reaches for his phone, flicking the flashlight on. Eddie flinches and leans away when Richie points it at his face, and he’s suddenly able to see puffy eyes and pink cheeks.

“Were you crying?” Richie asks, a little incredulous. Eddie flaps his one hand like he’s shooing away the light, holding an empty glass, and Richie turns the flashlight off. He notices Eddie is wearing a t-shirt this time, and a different pair of sleep shorts than before. Richie’s got on a new shirt, too, but he’s reused his sweatpants.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, what are you trying to do? Blind me? I come out for more water, and I get fucking bullied, fucking…” Eddie grumbles all the way to the kitchen, and Richie stares after him before reaching to drink from his own untouched glass. He downs all of it in a few gulps, then sets it back next to the lamp.

“Eds?” Richie asks. He moves the laptop off his lap and leaves it open as he stands, moving to join his friend. Eddie’s pouring new water into his glass, but the Brita filter is shaking as he does. Richie would have thought it was too heavy for one hand if it weren’t for the fact that he’d seen Eddie lift fifteen pound weights at physical therapy. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine, whatever, go back to writing. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Eddie says, and there it is: a sniffle. Richie slides over to grab the pitcher and Eddie lets him lower it down to the counter. Eddie kind of hunches into himself, the same way Richie usually does, except Eddie’s posture is usually perfect. Eddie leans into the counter, his one forearm on the surface, and Richie mirrors him.

“You’re not interrupting. Probably ruining my corneas or something anyway, right?” he offers, and at least Eddie has the audacity to snort. He’s glad he gets to see the uptwitch of Eddie’s smile in the dim lamplight from the living room. The breakfast bar doesn’t block it very well, and it casts a dim yellow across the backsplash and cabinets and Eddie.

“No, blue light fucks with your retinas. Not like your eyes can get any more damaged, though,” he quips. Richie smiles at him, but Eddie just sighs in the next second. “It’s kind of—It was a nightmare.”

“Oh.” Richie has nightmares. He’s had them ever since his first night in Derry. He tries not to think about them when he’s awake, but can’t do much when he’s asleep. “About It?”

“Jesus—Yes, Richie, about It. Thanks for treading lightly,” Eddie scolds, but he leans to the side enough to brush his right arm against Richie’s left. He almost wants to lean into it, but the touch is gone as quickly as it came.

“Me, too,” Richie says, and Eddie looks up at him. His eyes are still tired like before, but still round and brown and shiny. Bambi eyes. “Yeah, it’s… You know, I’d be weirded out if the others _didn’t_ have nightmares. It only happened, like, a month ago. Less than.”

“I guess. You want to talk about it?” Richie shakes his head, and Eddie nods. He looks away to stare at his full glass of water. For a second, Richie’s staring at his profile, wanting Eddie to look his way again, but settles for staring at the glass of water as well. “Me neither.”

“We killed the damn thing, but it’s still fucking with us. Unfair, huh?” Richie says lightly. He doesn’t really mean for it to be a joke, but Eddie chuckles beside him a little, anyway. “I usually lose some sleep over it, but it’s not all bad. I just—”

He almost admits it’s helped to be with Eddie. The nightmares haven’t made him shriek or shout or kick in his sleep, but the sting of salt on his cheeks and the tightness in his chest was enough to throw him into a panic whenever he woke up. He’d usually end up hyperventilating and crying into the sheets, even after It was dead.

But every night since they’d killed It for good, Eddie was there. Richie would spot him sleeping in his hospital bed right in front of him, then the hotel bed a few feet away, then the Airbnb bedroom a few _yards_ away. Eddie was okay. He was alive, and he was asleep, which was helpful because a lot of Richie’s nightmares had been about _him._ They’d quelled though, and they didn’t happen every night now. Still sucked when they did, but beggars, choosers, etcetera.

“They haven’t been as bad as they were,” Richie finishes. Eddie nods again, and the two of them stare at the water in his glass, still moving around a little. They spend some time like that, staring at water settling, before Eddie huffs again and stands up straight. He grabs the Brita filter and uses his socked foot to push the fridge open.

“Are you gonna keep at writing?” Eddie asks, sliding the pitcher in and glancing around the fridge even though Richie knows he wouldn’t be up for snacking at this time. Richie stands, too, closing his eyes and stretching his arms up over his head.

“Nah. All this talk about nightmares made me kind of tired,” he sighs, letting his arms drop. When Richie blinks and fixes his glasses, he sees Eddie’s head turn away at the last second. “You heading back to sleep, too? Anything to do tomorrow? Any hot dates?”

“I’m starting work again tomorrow.” At Richie’s raised brows, Eddie quickly corrects, “Over the computer. I don’t have to do anything in person besides some presentations and meetings every once in a while, and all the important stuff I need is saved onto my laptop, anyway.”

“Oh. Sounds stupid. How early you waking up?” Richie asks as Eddie returns. He’s leaning into the counter sideways, and Eddie rests his back against it once he grabs his glass and takes a sip.

“I usually wake up around six. That way I can get ready, eat breakfast, and figure out what needs to be done before heading out,” Eddie lists, and Richie snorts.

“That’s so lame, dude. You probably show up, like, five minutes early, huh?” Eddie frowns, which means he does. “Sleep in, dude. You wake up at six every day.”

“I go on morning runs. I started again when we checked in to the hotel.” Okay, Richie didn’t know that. “You’ve never seen me because you’re still sleeping by the time I’m done.”

“That’s so lame,” Richie repeats, because he doesn’t really know if he wants to imagine Eddie _running_ right now. Jesus.

"It is _not_ lame, it's _good_ for you and it's a healthy habit everyone should take up," Eddie shoots back.

"Yeah, if you're a lame-o," Richie says matter-of-factly. Eddie frowns.

"What's that mean?"

"Lame, but with an O at the end."

"Wh—Fuck you. _You're_ the lame-o."

“Maybe so. What time do you usually get back?” he asks without a segue. Eddie takes it in stride, like he always does, and his shoulders start to sink down from where they'd rose up to his ears.

“Seven. Maybe a quarter-past.” Eddie glances at the oven clock, and makes a face. Richie follows his gaze, and notes it’s been a good fifteen minutes. How long were they staring at that water? “I was supposed to go back to sleep.”

“Then go back to sleep, weirdo, quit chatting me up! Don’t wanna be groggy for your morning run.” He says it in a way that lets Eddie know he thinks the idea is funny, in a “sure, sounds like a great idea! _Not!”_ sort of way.

“Shut up, asshole. It strengthens your body and mind, and encourages routine and other healthy behavior,” Eddie insists, and stands. Richie moves so he’s leaning back against the counter this time, and crosses his arms. Eddie glances down at his arms for a second while taking a sip of water. He looks up when he swallows. “Night, Richie.”

“Goodnight, Eds,” Richie replies, even though that little look turned his throat a little dry. Eddie blinks at him once, turns, and walks out of sight. Past the bar, around the corner to the hallway.

Richie stares after him for a second, then pushes off the counter to open the fridge. He doesn’t feel like doubling back to grab his glass, so he just tips the Brita back for a waterfall, then takes the time to fill it all the way up again in the sink.

He’s already half-asleep when he trudges through the doorway again, writer’s adrenaline seemingly worn off, but he’s jerked right back to the land of the living when he nearly crashes into Eddie. Eddie jumps just as much as he does, and it’s hard to see his face when most of the light is spilling over his back. Still, Richie can make out his big eyes and caterpillar eyebrows and tight lips.

“Uh, can you—I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” Eddie says before Richie can ask if he’s okay. Eddie’s hand is wrapped tightly around the glass of water he managed not to spill. “If you—I mean, you don’t have to, but if you want to share the bed this one time, I-I think I’d feel better. Only if you want to. I want to be up early tomorrow, but I don’t think I can sleep.”

"Uh. Sure." Richie is embarrassingly quick to agree, but Eddie looks at him with this expression of such relief that he doesn’t even care. His friend even gets a little impatient when Richie maneuvers around him to shut his laptop and turn off the lamp, but proceeds to lead him to the bedroom without a word. It’s just as tidy as it had been when they’d arrived, except for the unmade silk sheets Eddie slipped out of.

“These are soft,” Richie comments as he sits on the cold side of the bed, about to make fun. Eddie sits on the side with a dip where he’d been sleeping, still a little warm, and sets his glass on the bedside. Richie’s a little hesitant to get under the sheets, but Eddie slides right in and shoos Richie off of the blankets. He tugs them down when Richie stands, then moves them so he can slip in, too. Richie does. “Like a baby’s bottom. Or your mother’s pillowy tits.”

“Goodnight. I hope you suffocate in your sleep,” Eddie says, settling in on his back as Richie makes himself comfortable. He faces away from Eddie, and Eddie lets him pull the soft sheets up under his chin. They smell nice, just like Eddie. Not that Richie’s taking voluntary whiffs, considering the scent is in the pillowcases and the pillows.

“Night night, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie offers back, and chortles when Eddie kicks at the backs of his calves. His feet are cold, but Richie thinks he could get used to that. He falls asleep quickly, right as Eddie’s breaths are evening out, and he doesn’t dream. He thinks they both sleep well that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe i did post two chapters of my hard work all at once because i was impatient and wanted my friends to see. and what about it

Richie slides the second of two omelettes onto a plate as he laughs at his phone. Beverly is telling him a story from her friend’s kitchen as she eats her own breakfast, some takeout from a diner that, “We _have_ to meet up at, Richie, their pancakes make me feel like I’m getting away with _murder.”_ She giggles as she cuts into her food, mirroring Richie’s grin over facetime.

“No, no, I’m serious,” she insists, not sounding serious at all. She hadn’t kept a straight face ever since calling him, and especially not while she was telling her story about some guy who’d approached her at a thrift shop. “If you were there, you would see it! He had sock garters!”

“Wishful thinking! You just want them to come back in style,” Richie teases, though he believes her entirely. Call him gullible, but Beverly Marsh has a special sort of charisma. “I do believe you about the mustache, but only because I hope the guy looked like Houdini.”

The door to the apartment swings open, and Richie holds up a finger to Bev before sliding across the small kitchen in his socks. She laughs through a mouthful of sticky pancakes, and Richie makes his way around the breakfast bar. He’s met with Eddie toeing off his running shoes, and smiles when his friend turns around and looks up at him.

“What are you doing up?” Eddie asks, bewildered. He’s wearing little running shorts, and his legs… sure look like runner’s legs. Richie snorts, moving to lean up against the counter. He crosses his arms, trying to keep his gaze above the waist in the name of all that is holy. Eddie’s eyes flicker down to Richie’s forearms and back up to his smug fucking face again.

“Good morning to you, too, handsome,” he greets. Eddie rolls his eyes and places his hand on his hip. His biceps kind of stretch out the sleeves of the shirt he’s wearing, the neck of it darkened with a little sweat. Richie clears his throat. “I woke up early. Wanted to make you breakfast.”

“I can make my own breakfast,” Eddie says slowly, defensively, and Richie just _knows_ he’s got a shit-eating grin on right now. He’s trying not to look hysterical just from one little glance at Eddie’s toned body, but maybe it’ll pass as him making fun. Eddie looks over the counter into the kitchen. “What’d you make?”

“Omelettes, man. You like yours fucking loaded with veggies, right?” Richie glances into the kitchen as well, and notices Eddie slump a little bit. He continues, looking back, “If you do, then that’s too bad, ‘cause I totally forgot. I put, like, a buttload of bacon and cheese on both of them on pure instinct. Also, Bev’s on FaceTime.”

“What! Why didn’t you lead with that?” Eddie is quick to brush past Richie and round the counter, and Richie can hear Beverly exclaim in excitement through another mouthful of pancake when he greets her. Richie is quick to join them. They quickly delve into back-and-forth about whether Houdini had a mustache and sock garters, which Eddie insists he doesn’t.

“Okay, okay,” Bev is laughing when they’re all finished eating. Richie expected something about fats and carbs or whatever from Eddie, considering his omelette was even more crowded than Richie’s, but he’d cleared his plate pretty quickly. He'd even stolen some of Richie's hashbrowns, the little shithead. “I have some exciting news.”

“You won the lottery,” Richie guesses from the sink. Suds cover his hands, and he flicks one to make the little bubbles float up into the air.

“You’re getting married,” Eddie guesses at the same time, leaning against the counter as he nurses his third glass of cool water.

“Close,” Beverly admits, and Richie snaps his head to the phone just in time to see Beverly raise her left hand to show a ring on her middle finger. It’s a classy silver, with a sparkly little diamond on it. “Promise ring!”

Later, Richie would say he did _not_ screech. Now, though, his voice pierced the air as his sudsy hands came up to his face. Eddie shouts a “What!” and they’re both astonished enough for Beverly to be thrown into a laughing fit over it.

“Holy shit, Bev! Holy shit!” Richie quickly finishes rinsing their forks before moving over to the counter and bumping into Eddie, who bumps back. “Damn! Always thought you were going to be the one to propose.”

“I still might! Ben was very insistent in saying this wasn’t a proposal,” her face is so red and her voice is so giddy, it warms Richie’s chest right up, “but there _will_ be one in the future. When everything blows over.”

“Wow,” Eddie laughs, a smile on his face that might be the dopiest Richie’s ever seen. “Bev, congrats! Holy shit. We’re so happy for you.”

“I know!” she squeals in a way she rarely does, and cradles her hand close to her chest. “Thank you! I’m so excited! I was going to get everyone together for a group chat, but—Oh my God! I’m marrying him!”

“The hets keep winning,” Richie says before he can think. He tenses up quickly, but Bev and Eddie are already rambling together and don’t seem to have noticed his joke. And even if they did… Richie relaxes. He’s allowed to be himself around his friends. He isn’t used to it yet, but he wants to be.

Bev gets excited to share it with everyone now, and she texts the group chat to check if anyone’s awake. Ben is, and he says to give him a minute before he can call in. Mike calls, then Bill, then Stan. When the news comes, the reactions are only a little less enthusiastic than Richie and Eddie’s were.

“That’s incredible, guys,” Mike says, his smile brighter than the glare on his sunglasses. It looks like he’s in a parking lot somewhere.

“Ben, you did it over home cooked dinner? You are _such_ a romantic,” Richie teases, and Eddie chuckles from beside him on the couch. They’re sharing Richie’s phone, and Eddie still smells a little like sweat. Richie tilts his device to show Eddie’s smile to the rest of them. "What else did you set up, you little heartthrob? Candles? Smooth jazz?"

“Over a home cooked dinner is the best way to do it,” Stan provides, and Patty bumps his shoulder happily. Richie tries to imagine Stan in an apron, and finds it really isn’t that hard.

“Do you wear an apron while you make dinner, Stan? 'Kiss the cook' and all?” he asks, and Patty’s laugh drowns out whatever Stan says in response.

“Any plans for the real proposal, guys?” Bill asks, walking through a grocery store aisle. Of course he’d be the type to call while grocery shopping. Richie can see his little Airpods when he turns his head to look at all the chips around him.

“It’s not like we’d share them with each other,” Beverly says, her phone propped up in front of her and her hands out of frame. She’s probably fiddling with her ring. “But to be honest, I do have some expectations.”

“You have expectations,” Ben says, brows raising. He’s in a spinny chair, and from what Richie can see, his interior design is very minimalist. It looks like he’s in a home office.

“Oh my God, no, no! However you want to propose will be perfect, honey,” Bev corrects immediately. She puts a hand on her chest. “I meant for when I propose.”

“Is this going to be a contest? I think Ben would lose,” Eddie comments.

“They’d both end up crying, so is there really any winning?” Richie replies.

“If Bev ends up crying, I’d be surprised. Ben would probably bawl his eyes out,” Stan chuckles, shifting a little so he and Patty are leaning against each other. Patty smiles over her mug as she takes a sip of coffee.

“If Ben doesn’t bawl his eyes out, I’m going to take back my proposal and make it so he does.” Ben looks a little alarmed, and Beverly laughs out loud.

“Do we have a time frame? Should we bet on who’s going to propose first?” Mike offers.

“They’d probably end up proposing at the same time, man.” Eddie and Stan agree with Richie, and he feels very validated as he continues, “Ben orders his ring in a champagne flute and, like, Bev orders hers in a cake. They’d just come out together.”

“If anything, you guys can bet on who’s going to be the Best Man,” Ben says. Beverly gasps.

“That’s such a good idea,” she says, “That would be fun!”

“I bet Mike.” Patty raises a hand, and Stan looks a little affronted.

“What? Why not me?” Stan asks, looking at her with a cute frowny face.

“You’re too nitpicky,” she teases, and laughs when Stan makes a face.

“I’m honored, Patty,” Mike says, and he looks like he truly means it. He even flips his sunglasses up over his head. “And just to say, I would be honored to be your Best Man. But I bet Stan.”

“Thank you.” Stan looks touched. Then he says, “I bet Mike.”

“I bet Mike,” Richie says at the same time Eddie does. They look at each other and Bev and Ben laugh.

“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t bet on this. Mike would just have to pay all of us," Eddie says. He squints at Bill's black screen. "Bill, where’d you go?”

“Bill, enlighten us,” Beverly laughs, and they all watch as Bill’s phone is slipped out of his pocket. It turns white with sudden light exposure, then focuses on his face. He’s walking outside now, squinting against the sunlight. “Honey, you’re muted.”

“Okay, can you hear me now?” he asks after a moment, and Eddie claps suddenly, just to be a little shit. Richie laughs way too loud when Bill jumps, and Eddie claps right in front of Richie’s face to shut him up. It just makes him laugh harder. “I was paying for the groceries. I would bet on Mikey, too.”

“You guys are ridiculous,” Mike laughs, but he looks a little shy as he props his phone on the dash and leans out of frame. A car door pops open. Richie's still laughing, and Eddie shoves his face away to the side so he can't laugh over Mike. “It would be way too early to choose, anyway. We can bet on something else.”

“Oh, no, Mikey,” “Mike,” the couple starts at the same time, then stops. They grin, and Beverly lets Ben say, “We totally decided it would be you, man. It wasn’t even a decision.”

“Mike, would you please be the Best Man at our wedding? Whenever it may be?” Beverly asks, leaning forward with a smile. Ben’s face matches hers, and Richie swats Eddie's hand away as he calms down. He thinks Ben has been staring at Bev’s screen the whole call.

“Oh my God.” Mike’s smile drops, and his hand moves over his face. He suddenly looks like he wants to cry. “Oh, wow, I… Really? Wait, for real?”

“We didn’t mean to ask you over Facetime, but yes,” Beverly supplies, her hands clasped under her chin. Her ring sparkles, and Richie _ooh_ s appropriately. He has the phone so close to his face Eddie has to lean against him to see the screen until he remembers to share. “It would mean the world to us, Mike.”

“Wh—I—Yes! Yeah, of course! Oh my God,” Mike says quickly, running his hand over his head next. “Oh, man, I didn’t think… Holy crap.”

“Mikey, congrats!” Bill laughs, and his voice echoes a little. A car door shuts somewhere, then Bill hangs up, only for his hand to appear in Mike’s frame a second later, clasping on one beefy shoulder. “Holy shit, man!”

“What the fuck, congratulations, Mike! We knew you’d get it,” Eddie says, touching Richie’s wrist so he’d move the camera towards him. Stan and Patty agree, and Mike laughs a little wetly.

“He’s crying!” Richie cackles, but he might cry, too. Beverly and Ben really were getting married. It was happening. “Nice going, Homeschool! But also, is that Bill? What the fuck?”

“I came to visit him in LA,” Mike breathes out, and he’s definitely crying now. The sunlight makes his tear tracks sparkle, and Richie giggles as he takes a screenshot. “Man, come here.”

“Thank you so much, Mikey,” Ben says, sounding relieved. Mike wails a little bit and tugs Bill into a hug, slapping his back in that accidentally-too-harsh way that guys do. “It means a lot to us. We’ll talk more with you about it as soon as we’re engaged.”

“Or able to get engaged. Right after my divorce is finalized,” Beverly reminds, but she sounds excited. “Thank you, Mike. I’m so excited! Stan, you were definitely our second choice.”

“As I should be. I’m excited for all of you,” Stan says, smiling. “But hey, yeah, we didn’t know Mike was visiting Bill. When did that happen?”

“He surprised me a few days ago,” Bill says when he finally pulls away from Mike’s embrace. Mike turns his phone to face Bill, sniffling a little bit, and he chuckles as he opens the glovebox to find napkins. “We’re rooming together.”

“Oh my God, how’s the divorce?” Beverly asks eagerly. She sounds like she's already planning a triple divorce party or something. “Or divorces, plural. Bill, Eddie?”

“Should be done with it soon,” Eddie supplies. Richie presses his full weight into him with an excited grin, and Eddie snorts and shoves him away. “But I’m optimistic. How ‘bout you, Billy?”

“Mine just got finalized yesterday, actually!” he says excitedly, handing Mike a couple of Wendy’s napkins. “I’m excited. Bev, you mentioned it might take a few more months for you?”

“Unfortunately,” she sighs. “I’m sure he won’t try to drag it on as long as possible, considering how much attention we’re getting, but the evidence is still stacking against him. I know I said I wanted to get it over with, but I’m glad I’m taking him to court for… the violence, and all.”

“I’m glad, too,” Ben says, and his face is an equal amount of adoring towards Bev and disapproval towards her ex. “It’ll turn out well, Bev. We’re all here for you.” The Losers agree, nodding and offering praise of their own, and Bev grins.

“I know, you fucking saps,” she says, drawing laughs out of them, but she looks up and wipes the corner of her eye to prevent her tears from spilling over. Mike is still crying. “Oh, man. No matter how this turns out, I know I have you guys. I love you all. Patty, you’re very included.”

“Oh, I love everyone here, too. You’re all my family now, I hope you know,” Patty says sincerely, and everyone else joins in on the affection. Richie is barely holding it together, and if Beverly cries, he’ll be inconsolable. Eddie glances over and pats Richie’s arm after contributing. The call settles into silence for a few seconds, all eight of them basking in each other.

“In other news,” Richie starts slowly, forcing his voice to be steady. “I’m reluctant but relieved to announce my own divorce. It was a long time coming, but Mrs. K and I finally decided our lovemaking was just—”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Eddie says, shooting his hand out to grab at the phone and nearly making Richie drop it. Richie’s laughter is louder than everyone else’s when he leaps off the couch, and he can see Eddie chasing after him when he raises the phone above his head.

The call lasts another ten minutes, when Ben awkwardly admits that he has to leave. It turns out he’s in his home office because he was in the middle of a video meeting with some top guys in his company before the call, which everyone thinks is hilarious. The others take that as their cue to go, since they all have their own important things to do. All except Richie and Eddie.

“When are you going to tell them you’re restarting your career?” Eddie asks, looking through the fridge. He’s found a blender in one of the cabinets and had Richie get it down for him. Richie’s sat on one of the breakfast bar stools, watching Eddie from across the counter. “Or is it supposed to be a secret?”

“I dunno if it’s supposed to be a secret. If anything, leaking shit might get me more clout.” He laughs when the word makes Eddie look over his shoulder just to frown. Eddie goes back to looking for fruit, and Richie props an elbow on the counter to rest his chin in his hand. “I’ll text them about it later. I didn’t think my news would top Benverly’s.”

“Benverly,” Eddie echoes, grabbing a carton of strawberries and setting them on the counter next to the fridge. He grabs his carton of oatmilk as well, which is already half-empty. “Yeah. I’m happy for you, but those guys are getting married. No one can beat that.”

“Bold words coming from a divorcee,” Richie teases before he can think better of it. Eddie grabs a few more things from the fridge and rolls his eyes once he turns around.

“Beep beep, Richie,” he drawls, and brings some fruit to the sink to start rinsing them off. “Still, you could tell them soon. Maybe having the extra support will be nice. Motivating.”

“I guess so. Actually, I think you're right.” Richie digs out his phone and opens Twitter again, sitting up straighter as he scrolls through his drafts. “How’s this: ‘Big news, bigger dick. Trashmouth is rebranding.’”

“Hate it. Even with the bad beginning, it’s too simple.” Eddie takes the time to rinse off each strawberry individually, which Richie watches for a few seconds before Eddie prompts, “Next?”

“Okay, uh, ‘Time for a change. First, I’m trimming my pubes.’” Eddie makes a noise of complaint, and Richie laughs through the rest, “‘Second, I’m making better and newer content while on hiatus!’”

“You’re so fucking gross, don’t talk about your pubes on Twitter. No one wants to hear about your pubes,” he complains.

“Then stop saying pubes! You don’t know my fans. Okay, what if I say, like, ‘Did you miss me? I hope you didn’t.’” He doesn’t even make it through the rest when Eddie tells him to move on.

Richie has a lot more drafts than he realizes, and Eddie criticizes a lot of them while he chops up some of the fruit to make for an easier blend. Some are worth considering, though, and by the time their smoothies are done, Richie decides a tamer Tweet is the best for an announcement that might get him a lot of attention. Eddie’s right in mentioning he didn’t want to make too gross of a joke and have it spread across the internet for a little while.

“Okay, okay, I feel good about this one. I’m Tweeting it,” Richie says without reading it out loud to Eddie, just because he knows it’ll get vetoed instantly. It sounds funny in a way that’s a little uncomfortable, but not the offensive kind of uncomfortable he’s (unfortunately) known for. He chooses the draft and makes a few fixes before Tweeting.

A little whistle comes from Eddie’s phone, and Richie doesn’t think much of it until Eddie’s face colors a little and he pointedly ignores it. He looks at his friend curiously when Eddie sips his smoothie with a little more passion than necessary. It dawns on him then.

“Oh my God, Eds,” he laughs, and Eddie glares at him over his straw. It confirms his suspicion, which is both hilarious and kind of nice. “Do you have my Twitter notifications on?”

“I’m going to block you. How do I block people on Twitter?” he asks, and Richie laughs. Eddie takes his phone out of his pocket then, and looks at the Tweet. “What the _fuck.”_

[Photo ID: Tweet from @trashmouth, display name _richie “big dick” tozier._ Tweet reads in all lowercase, “XXX-cited to officially announce that I’m not dead! Daddy Trashmouth is on a long-needed and super sexy vacay right now, but expect some major changes to the Trashmouth experience! Eyes emoji, eggplant emoji, sweating emoji. Hashtag “not a drug thing,” hashtag “if you call me daddy I will disown you.”]

"You like it?" Richie asks. "Guess I didn't need your input anyway."

"No," Eddie says flatly. "Drink your smoothie before it melts, you ungrateful bastard."

* * *

Richie is back in the cavern. The ground is damp and cool against his back, the iciness of it seeping through his clothing and covering his body in an icy grip. He blinks rapidly, gasping for air as he tries to make his vision straight. There are footsteps coming towards him, and then there’s Eddie.

“Richie! Richie!” Eddie calls, excited and shocked and terrified. Richie blinks up at him, and he makes out the smiling face of his best friend. His dimples are prominent as he grins down at him. “Yeah, there you go, buddy! Hey, I think I killed it!” He glances over his shoulder. “I did! I think I killed it!”

He knows what’s going to happen. He’s seen it. Richie’s hand hovers, about to grab Eddie’s shoulder and roll him away. He’s so close, he’s right there, he’s saying, “I think I—”

Richie is too slow, and Eddie is so far away.

Richie wakes up without a sound. He’s covered in a thin and sticky sheen of sweat, soaking into his shirt and the pillow and the bedsheets. He’s frozen still, his left hand raised weakly over himself, reaching for something he doesn’t get to touch. Tears roll from the corners of his wide eyes to the tops of his ears.

“Mm,” Eddie says beside him, and Richie realizes a little too late that he’s waking up. As Eddie’s hand glides further beneath his pillow, Richie rolls over, trying to be smooth enough to make it look like he’s still sleeping. He even hangs one arm over the edge of the bed. Eddie’s voice comes quiet and gravelly. “Rich?”

He’s never been much of an actor anyway. Not when it matters. Richie starts sobbing, and brings both hands up to cover his face. The sheets shift abruptly as Eddie leans up, and Richie can feel where his best friend’s elbow is digging into the mattress.

“Richie?” A pause, then Eddie’s hand on his elbow over the silk blanket. Richie shudders at the touch, but Eddie just presses his hand down firmer to give him a little shake. Like he’s grounding him. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay. You need anything? Water?”

Eddie is quiet in a way he rarely is, but that probably comes with the universal rule of whispering before everyone else has woken up. Richie doesn’t know what time it is, but the window he’s facing is a shade of blue that’s light enough to indicate early morning.

“No, I’m good,” Richie says, though his sobbing contradicts him. Eddie’s started to rub over his bicep, still covered by the sheets, and Richie tries not to lean into it. He continues, “Go back to sleep. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Have some water,” Eddie decides for him, taking his hand away. Richie tries to wipe his face off with his hands before he shifts onto his back. Eddie’s sitting up, and Richie takes a moment to stare at the blurry ceiling before following suit. He probably looks really gross at the moment, but it isn’t like he has his glasses on to see Eddie’s face.

He’s able to take the glass of water Eddie gives to him, and cups the glass in both hands. He stares down at it for a second before Eddie’s touch returns. It’s on his bare elbow this time, and Richie quickly lifts the glass and downs half of it in one go. When he lowers it, he sees Eddie staring out of the corner of his eye. Richie huffs.

“See something you like?” he asks meekly, and Eddie tilts his head like he does when he’s rolling his eyes. Richie looks over long enough to wiggle his brows as he sips more water. It’s gone by the time he’s finished with it.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, letting Richie swallow before taking the glass back. Richie hugs himself for a second, then lets his arms fall again. He doesn’t know how to answer that question. Eddie must realize that, because he asks instead, “Do you need anything else?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Richie glances up at the window again and frowns. “I guess sleeping won’t do that much good, huh? Might as well stay up.”

“You slept late again last night,” Eddie says, leaning back a little on his hand. Richie watches the bed dip under his weight. “You should try to get some more rest.”

The nightmares don’t usually come back after he goes to sleep, and he wonders if it’s the same with Eddie. If maybe their brains just need a wakeup call before remembering they’re okay. Fucked up thing for their brains to do, really. Still Richie is always wary of going back to sleep. It’s rarely happened, but it could always come back.

“I didn’t stay up as late as you, but I still stayed up later than usual.” Eddie had had a lot of work to do earlier (last night?), and called Richie to the bedroom when he was finished to make sure he wouldn’t fall asleep on the couch while writing. Richie was worried about keeping Eddie up at first, but the guy had passed out around midnight without an issue.

“Yeah, sucks. I can’t imagine how you handle going to sleep at nine. Like some eighty year old,” Richie comments. Eddie huffs and shifts his butt forward to lay down. Richie looks down at him as he rests his one hand on his stomach.

“Since I stayed up late,” he clarifies, “I was going to sleep in a little bit. Just get some more rest before you have to do anything tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Richie says honestly, but Eddie isn’t one to budge so easily.

“You could try.” He pats the bed, then rests his hand on his stomach again. “Sleep in with me.”

Richie thinks of the cavern. It was dark, and cold, and made him feel like he was caught in a bear trap. He thinks of how Eddie looked, frozen and terrified and caught in so much pain he couldn’t even process it at first. And then how the pain had started to fade from his face, from his eyes, relaxing further and further as the energy left him.

Richie rolls to lean over Eddie and hears a confused noise in response as he reaches for the nightstand. It takes a couple tries, but he manages to grab his glasses and unfold them with one hand. He’s still leaning over his best friend as he shoves them on his face, narrowly poking his eyes out. His vision comes into focus, and Richie zeroes in on Eddie’s face.

He’s still and wide-eyed, but it isn’t from the fear or pain Richie remembers seeing (envisioning). There’s some shock, but Eddie’s expression is lax enough to allow for some sort of awe to peek through. Richie’s keeping his upper half hovering over Eddie with one arm beside Eddie’s shoulder, nearly brushing the t-shirt sleeve there. His eyes are as round and brown as ever, and his hand twitches where it rests on his belly, like he might reach up and, and…

They stare at each other like that for a few seconds, Eddie relaxing into the mattress with each passing second, his dark hair lightly mussed by sleep. Richie takes in his eyes, his brows, his mouth, his nose. His residual limb is kept in a compression sock and lays still at Eddie’s side. Eddie looks clean. He looks calm, even, perfectly content with the scrutinizing. His gaze flickers around a little, too, and Richie realizes Eddie’s observing him in the same way.

The realization makes Richie a little self-conscious, and he decides that’s enough looking. He leans over again to place his glasses back, not bothering to fold them, and grunts a little when he makes his way back to laying down. When his head hits the pillow, he notes he can see Eddie’s profile in his peripheral. They’re both looking up at the ceiling of the apartment, quiet and contemplative.

The bedroom is dim, and cool, and it makes him realize how tired he is. Eddie is right next to him, and Richie’s accidentally placed himself closer than he’d been when he woke up. He could feel Eddie’s warmth just inches away, seeping into the mattress and the blanket and his bicep. He moves his arm just a little to the left so they’re touching elbows, and he’s relieved when Eddie doesn’t move.

“Night,” Eddie says quietly. He sounds half-asleep all over again.

“Night,” Richie replies, and Eddie’s breaths have already evened out.

Richie thinks the light in the window has gotten a little bit brighter, but at the same time he notices, his eyes are slipping shut.

* * *

Richie wakes up sprawled over the bed facedown, and the first thing he notices is a distinct lack of Eddie. It still smells like him though, so he shoves his face into the pillow and inhales before he can worry about whether it’s creepy or not. He doesn’t think it is. Who is he to deny one of his five senses?

When he comes up for fresh air, he smells bacon instead. The urge to take a few minutes to wake up is strong, but he thinks about breakfast and Eddie cooking breakfast, and suddenly he doesn’t have much trouble pushing himself up and finding his glasses. He pulls the blankets up in a lazy attempt of making the bed, just to show Eddie he was a tiny bit considerate, and makes his way out of the room.

“Fucking—Shit,” Eddie curses as Richie makes his way into the kitchen. Eddie fiddles with the stove, turning the heat down lower as eggs splatter in the pan. He’s angling his residual limb away from the stove and Richie can’t see his face, but he’s sure Eddie is scowling. “Fuck.”

“Good morning, beautiful,” he greets as he sidles up to the counter, and Eddie swivels his head over his shoulder to look at him. Richie grabs a piece of extra crispy bacon from one of the plates and bites into it. It’s super crispy, which is how he likes it, but he has an inkling Eddie just cooked them more than he meant to. “You too, Eds.”

“Asshole. Morning.” Eddie scowls at him before turning back to the stove. Richie has half the sense to help out, but he figures Eddie would ask if he wanted it. He wanted to learn by himself, and Richie didn’t want to impose. Richie settles for leaning against the breakfast bar and munching on the rest of his bacon strip as he looks his friend up and down. Without looking back, Eddie offers, “There’s coffee.”

“I like coffee,” Richie supplies, and Eddie snorts. Richie waits to watch Eddie slip the over easy eggs onto each plate before standing up to grab himself a mug. The coffee has cooled enough that it turns lukewarm when Richie adds some oatmilk, but he doesn’t mind. He pours some oatmilk straight into his mouth just to make Eddie’s face scrunch up, which it does.

They eat breakfast at the breakfast bar, falling into idle chatter. What work Eddie got done last night, what work Richie got done last night, this cute dog Eddie saw on his run; they skip over Richie’s nightmare entirely, and he’s grateful Eddie doesn’t seem concerned about it anymore.

“Stan was up early today. We were talking about that barbeque he and Patty wanted to do, and he thinks he’ll organize it next month. So everyone has time to plan for it,” Eddie supplies, catching a piece of bacon between the prongs of his fork to lift it up to his mouth.

“Yeah? Sucks we won’t make it for the Fourth of July,” Richie comments, and Eddie shrugs. They share a look, and it’s immediately clear neither of them care for the holiday. “Whatever Mr. and Mrs. Blum want to do, I’m down.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Uris,” Eddie corrects, but he doesn’t sound like he prefers Stan’s last name anyway. “I was thinking I could try to hurry my thing up a little, but I don’t know if I’ll actually be able to do anything. I just want to have it out of the way.”

“Yeah? You planning on having it done before the BBQ?” Richie wonders if he’d be allowed to comment on Eddie’s divorce being reduced to Eddie’s “thing.” He scoops some egg into his mouth instead. “Sounds good. Shouldn’t be too bad of a flight from New York to Georgia.”

“You want to wait with me? Even then?” Richie’s a little confused about why that’s surprising, but he nods anyway. Eddie’s giving him a weird look again, with the wide, glimmering eyes. Richie thinks his tummy feels funny, and he pauses in chewing to purse his lips.

“That okay?” he asks, and Eddie looks at him for a second more before nodding. He goes back to his food, and Richie follows. He talks with his mouth full. “Okay. How about after?”

“Don’t be gross. You mean after Georgia?” Eddie asks, and Richie gives a big thumbs up instead of talking. “I don’t know. I still need to find a place.”

Richie glances at him, but Eddie’s too focused on maneuvering his fork to tilt his bacon the right way so he can take a bite. He looks back at his plate and eats some more, trying to figure out how to word his thoughts. The silence lasts for a few comfortable minutes before Richie starts getting antsy.

“Hey, so, uh…” Eddie looks up at him, pausing mid-bite into a piece of toast with jam. The good kind of jam, that came in real glass jars, unlike the cheap shit in those plastic squeeze bottles Richie bought. When Richie glances at Eddie and back to the fridge across the kitchen, Eddie completes his bite with a slow crunch. “If you need a place to stay, uh, mine—My place is open.”

“Your place?” Eddie asks, mouth full. Little hypocrite. Richie sets his fork down and wraps his hands around his lukewarm coffee mug instead. It’s been long enough that it’s barely lukewarm anymore. “What, like, in LA?”

“Yeah, man. I’ve got a place. A house. I lived in an apartment for forever, but Steve got on my ass about buying a house when I kept complaining about my neighbors complaining about me.” He wants to take a sip of coffee, but all of Eddie’s attention is on him and Richie doesn’t think he can fit a break between his words. He continues quickly, “So, like, it’s got a guest bedroom or whatever. Promise it’s not even that gross, besides the cocaine and the black mold and all.”

“Don’t even joke about that. But yeah, okay,” Eddie agrees. Richie looks up at him, straight into those doe eyes. He makes a face at Eddie, which makes Eddie make a face right back. “What?”

“Really? You’re just agreeing?” Richie asks, and Eddie glances around like he doesn’t know what’s going on as he swallows the food in his mouth. “You really want to?”

“I mean, yeah. Why wouldn’t I? Should I not?” They both sound equally confused. Eddie continues, “What are you talking about? I’m confused.”

“I don’t know! It just seems like a really loaded question, I don’t know if you, like, thought it through,” Richie explains, and Eddie makes another face.

“If _I_ thought it through? _You’re_ the one who asked _me,”_ Eddie stresses, starting to get defensive. “Was it a throwaway question? Fine, then thanks, but no thanks, I’ll keep living in New York.”

“What? No, don’t do that,” Richie pleads, sounding whinier than he’d like to admit. Eddie still looks a little annoyed, but completely befuddled. “Okay, no, I just meant—I dunno. No, I do want you to live with me, but I don’t want to rush you into it. Like, if you want to do your own thing, you should do that.”

“You think I can’t make my own decisions,” Eddie decides, frowning, and Richie sputters. “No, it’s—Richie, what the fuck? You’re not rushing me into anything. I think this… Uh, hanging around you is nice. I like it. And moving in with you would be easier than apartment-hunting.”

“You sure?” Richie doesn’t know why he’s acting like he wants Eddie to change his mind, because he doesn’t. He wants Eddie to move in with him, and that’s just it: the implications. He says, meekly, “Uh, we’ll be roommates. Like, living together. In a space together. For the foreseeable future.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind sharing a future with you,” Eddie says casually, like it’s something he’s thought about before and not just an idea sprung onto him during breakfast. Richie’s shocked by how nonchalant Eddie is about it, almost as much as he’s shocked by the words alone.

“Oh.” Eddie watches him, gauging for a reaction, and Richie has to relearn the entire English language in two seconds. It’s very difficult and very flustering. His face feels hot. “Yeah. Okay. I want—I don’t mind sharing a future with you, too.”

“Good. That’s it, then.” Eddie watches him a little more, and Richie turns away a little bit to drink his coffee that’s gone cold. Eddie turns back to his plate then, and they finish up relatively quickly. Eddie’s done first, and pulls his phone out to look through it while Richie finishes off the rest of his egg.

Richie moves to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand until he spots the napkin Eddie’s tucked under both of their plates, and he uses that instead. Eddie stands when Richie’s finishing off his cold coffee again, and takes the dishes to the sink to rinse them off. It feels natural for Richie to find the TV remote and turn it on to the news when he sees it’s about that time.

It hits Richie just then how domestic this is. He woke up in Eddie’s bed to Eddie making breakfast just because he wanted to. They had the “move in with me” talk over toast. Eddie was finishing up with rinsing the dishes even though they’d agreed that whoever cooked didn’t need to do them. Richie was standing in front of the morning news with a mug of coffee.

They somehow made a New York Airbnb apartment feel like home, Richie realized as he stared blankly at the news. If they could manage that, how would it feel at his actual house? In their own space? After Eddie’s divorce, and after Richie’s work became something he was passionate about again.

The sink stops running and Eddie moves to dry his hand off. Richie finishes his gross coffee in a panic and starts flipping through channels, eventually stopping at the very opposite of a news channel. Perfect.

“Why did you put on Spongebob?” Eddie asks when he joins Richie in the living room. He sits down first, but looks up expectantly. When Richie sits, Eddie swivels so his feet are in Richie’s lap, and Richie’s hand comes to rest on one of his ankles.

“Spongebob? I thought this was NPR,” Richie says dumbly. It isn’t even funny. Eddie rolls his eyes as he settles, and both of their gazes move to the television. Either neither of them have work to do or both of them forget, because they don’t get off the couch for a few hours after that.

Living with Eddie isn’t difficult. He likes to get on Richie’s case about reusing pajamas and jeans, and has the tendency to grumble to himself when dealing with particularly disorganized paperwork, and somehow manages to burn spinach on two separate occasions. Needless to say, his company is the best that Richie’s ever been in.

Richie was a little apprehensive at first, seeing Eddie every single day and sharing a tiny little space with him. He’s never done this with anyone before, and it was freaky in the first couple weeks (especially when they started sharing the bed) but it’s become… nice. Easy, like Eddie’s become a part of Richie’s space and left no seams.

* * *

It's nearing the start of August when Eddie says, apropos of nothing, "My divorce got finalized this morning." He’s finishing up a DoorDash order, triple-checking the address and payment method like usual ever since that time Richie had done it from his phone and got the apartment number wrong. They’d gotten the food without much of a hassle, but it was enough to make Eddie make Richie make sure that he didn’t send their poor delivery guy to some rando’s apartment again.

Richie pauses in his scrolling through Instagram, and looks up to catch Eddie's eyes. They're both on opposite ends of the couch, Richie sitting with one leg on the couch in front of him and Eddie leaning against the armrest. Eddie's socked toes are tucked into Richie's bent knee, presumably for warmth, and Richie doesn't mind.

"Oh," he says. Eddie doesn't look particularly excited, but there isn't any regret on his face, either. He looks relieved more than anything. "Well, hey, how’re you feeling?"

"Good, I guess." Richie shuts his phone off and balances it facedown on his knee while Eddie finalizes the food order. They're having Chinese tonight. "Yeah, it's... I like that it’s done with. Finally. But at the same time, I guess it's still disappointing that something I spent so much of my time on just... didn't work out."

He talks about his marriage like it was a project he'd been determined to complete, or an extra large folder of disorganized Excel spreadsheets he had to decode. Richie thinks his tone alone says a lot about the relationship. For a second, he remembers wedding pictures and a single box of stuff worth keeping and a mutual crying session in the rental.

"Sure, it didn't work out," Richie tests, "but the bottom line is that you're happy, isn’t it? I get that it's a bummer to drop out of a long relationship, and I think you're allowed to feel sucky about it. Still, it's a good thing. Right?"

"Right." Eddie looks more relaxed now, but he's still fiddling with his phone. His fingers move quickly, clicking the power button over and over again. That can’t be good for it, Richie thinks. "The important part is that I'm happy? You really think so?"

"Yeah, man." He thinks Eddie being happy is the one thing that keeps the universe intact. It's a necessity to Richie, like air and water and food. Instead of saying this, Richie jams his hand into his bent leg to work his fingers beneath Eddie's foot. Expectedly, he jerks away with a yelp.

"What the fuck? Don't do that," Eddie huffs, managing to raise his leg to kick the side of Richie's face. Richie laughs when it makes his glasses crooked, pawing at it until Eddie takes his foot off his face. "Asshole. I was thinking something."

"You? Not we?" Richie teases, and doesn't even flinch when Eddie drops his leg in his lap. His phone slides off his knee and into his crotch, but he wasn't going to pick it up anyway. His hand rests on the top of Eddie's tiny little foot.

"Just me. I don’t think you’d know what thinking is if it slapped you in your dumb face," Eddie replies, dropping his phone. He makes grabby hands, except he only has the one, and Richie surrenders the remote. He starts scrolling through Netflix, looking for something worth watching.

"Eddie Spaghetti gets off a good one!” he cheers. “But hey! Back on track. You're single now, man. What's the next move?" Richie asks this with a little grin, even though the idea of Eddie starting to date makes his stomach turn.

"What do you mean?" Eddie hovers over some reality show that Richie made him watch a few days ago, but he scrolls past it after a second.

"You know. You've got a long life ahead of you, more than enough time to meet another lucky lady." Richie hates the fact that he's talking right now. "What are you thinking? Tinder? Christian Mingle? Farmers Only? The one, the jingle that’s, like, ‘you don’t have to be lonely—’"

"I'm Catholic. You know this." Eddie breezes past a few other reality shows. He glances at a few documentaries, but dutifully scrolls on. "I don't think I'll date again."

"What? Why not?" Richie barely has time to celebrate Eddie not dating anyone else because, by extension, he wouldn't date Richie, either. Though he supposes it wouldn't be a reality under any circumstances, anyway.

"I don't know. One, no one would go for me." Richie cuts him off right there.

"Bullshit! Bull and shit and bullshit!" he calls loudly, and Eddie rolls his eyes. "What's that for?"

"Richie, I'm a forty year old man who works an office job and goes to bed at nine PM. That's besides the one-arm thing." He lifts his residual limb a little, like a reminder.

"What, you think that's boring? Chicks love that stuff, dude. Stable income, time management skills, sexy mysterious backstory," Richie lists off on his fingers. "Even with the latter, you're getting your new arm soon, right? Your prosthetic?"

"Soon. This weekend," Eddie clarifies, looking away. He hasn't really talked about the prosthetic appointment much, almost like he was shy about it for some reason.

"See? That'll be one thing down," Richie says, offering a grin. He nudges Eddie's ankle to show his support. "Regardless, you're a catch either way."

"You're trying too hard," Eddie deadpans, and Richie lightly slaps the top of his foot. It's so gentle that he knows Eddie doesn't mean it when he says, "Ow."

"Don't be like that, Eddie Spaghetti! You're a handsome little man, and the ladies would be lucky to have you in all your plastic hand glory!" Eddie searches his face for a moment. It lasts long enough that Richie gets a little nervous. “What?”

“What about…” Eddie’s face screws up as he starts to say whatever it is he means to say. It’s as intriguing as it is concerning. After another long moment he deflects, “I don’t know.”

“What about what?” Richie prompts, but Eddie’s frown doesn’t let up for another few moments.

“I don’t know,” Eddie repeats. Then, “You really think if I put myself out there, people would be interested?”

“I know it. How could they not?” Richie’s hand is still on Eddie’s foot, and he moves to rest on the back of the couch instead. Eddie frowns a little deeper.

“Okay, well, you… One, I don’t feel like anyone would even go for me. _Two,”_ he says quickly, before Richie intervenes again, “I also feel like trying to get into a relationship so soon would be moving too fast. Or, like, not even an actual relationship, just—seeing other people would probably fuck me up right now."

“That’s a good reason,” Richie offers, because it is. Eddie nods briskly, like that settles that. “Still, doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate! Do any of the others know?”

“I wanted to tell you first.” Well, that makes Richie feel a little warm inside. The fact that out of his six friends, Eddie decided Richie should be the first to hear the news. Well, actually, he’s usually the first one Eddie tells things to. They see each other every day, after all, and even with the new material coming along, Richie’s just the most un-busy Loser to tell.

“Aw, you sure know how to make a guy feel special,” he says anyway, and Eddie huffs. He’s circled back around to the reality shows, flipping through each one. “What do you say? Think we can get the DoorDash driver to pick up some cheap wine before he gets to the apartment?”

“You’re not funny.” Richie’s already picking up his phone though, because he thinks there’s a small grocery store between the Chinese place and the apartment complex. Eddie moves while Richie types, swinging himself forward to lean against the back of the couch like Richie is. “What are we watching?”

“You just want me to say _The Circle_ so you’re not responsible for binging the next few hours of it,” he says, and he can practically feel Eddie making a face even as he selects the episode they left off on. Their driver replies to Richie’s text fairly quickly, and he drops his phone again. “You should be on a reality show one day, y’know? You’d be the dramatic one who doesn’t get voted off ‘cause you're the smartest person there.”

“I’d be the dramatic one who gets voted off _because_ I’m the smartest person there,” Eddie corrects. "You'd be the dumb one who doesn't even want to be on the show."

"I'd totally want to be on the show! I'd be a star," Richie says, placing one hand under his chin in a confident post. Eddie snickers at him. "This is the face of a winner."

"It's a face, alright," Eddie says in (hopefully) faux distaste, and Richie laughs. Eddie relaxes back when the episode loads up, and Richie realizes then that his arm is still on the back of the couch. He moves it a little, nudging the back of Eddie’s neck to be a bother, but Eddie barely blinks.

Some of the hairs at the back of his neck brush the inside of Richie’s elbow, which tickles and itches at the same time. The warmth feels sort of funny. Richie decides to leave his arm there, just for lack of complaint, and turns his attention to the TV.

Eddie makes Richie pack up in the morning two days later, even though it’s a Wednesday and Stan and Patty’s BBQ is over the weekend. Richie thinks he’s just gotten fed up with the apartment and the dog smell that won’t really leave no matter how much Eddie Swiffers the floor, but he doesn’t complain. Eddie finds it especially difficult to fold his sheets up with one arm, so he instructs Richie how to fold them the way he likes it.

Eddie also has him help clean the place up again so it’s even neater than they found it. He leaves a ten dollar bill on the breakfast counter for the cleaners that are supposed to show up an hour after they leave. Richie leaves the same amount of cash with a little sticky note on the mirror, because he thinks a “Thank you,” and a smiley face goes a long way. Eddie adds his own smiley face onto it without asking.

* * *

Atlanta, Georgia is much hotter than New York. It’s sunny, with pretty blue skies and fun little clouds. They find an inn half an hour away from Stan and Patty’s suburban home, which the other Losers are staying in as well. Richie hasn’t seen Eddie try out his prosthetic yet and begs him to let him see, but Eddie’s adamant on leaving the thing with the rest of their luggage lest he sweat all over it.

Eddie is also deadset on leaving early to see if the Blums need any help setting up instead of just waiting around for the others. Richie knows he’s just excited to see Stan and Patty, and despite insisting they show up fashionably late, Richie’s pretty eager about it, too.

“You sure this is the right address?” Eddie asks, peeking out the passenger side window. Richie’s driving past the house slowly, eyeing it as he goes by. It’s cute.

“Maybe not,” he says. It’s a small house, with large windows covered by white curtains. He wishes they were drawn, just to be able to see inside from here. “They don’t even have a bird feeder in the front.”

“Park there,” Eddie directs, and Richie parks on the side of the road. Eddie’s already opening his door by the time he pulls the key from the ignition. “I still think we should’ve gotten the more expensive wine.”

“Kosher wine is expensive enough as is. Besides, we already bought donuts. They’re gonna love us, otherwise I’m eating all of these myself,” Richie says, hopping out to grab the boxes from the backseat as Eddie snatches the wine bottle from where it lay on the floor.

“Hurry up,” Eddie urges from the other side of the car, and Richie laughs a little when he rounds to the sidewalk and Eddie’s bouncing in impatience. They start walking together, setting a quick pace even for Richie.

At the end of the driveway, there’s a little white mailbox with “Uris” delicately painted onto the side. There are small wind chimes that ring quietly as they make their way up the front yard and onto the porch. Eddie’s ringing the doorbell before he even comes to a full stop.

“I’ll get it,” a man’s voice calls from inside the house, and Richie’s staring at the door like it’s the hunter that killed Bambi. Eddie glances up at him, nervous, but trying to act indifferent. The door swings open. “Hey, guys. Richie, are you crying?”

“Stan!” They greet in unison, Eddie grinning and Richie sobbing. Stan grins back as Eddie goes in for a hug, and Richie cries over their two dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Eddie’s wrapped tightly around Stan, covering his entire front even with just one arm and a wine bottle when he says, “Dude, Richie, get in on this.”

 _“Stan,”_ Richie says again, because he’s a fucking sap, and Stan outstretches one arm to let Richie join the hug. It lasts an embarrassingly long time, but not enough for Richie to be satisfied. He breaks away to place the donut boxes on the porch floor before going in for a proper bear hug. Eddie’s pinned between the two, but he doesn’t protest.

“Is someone crying?” another person asks, and Richie hears Eddie introduce himself to Stan’s chest. Eddie wiggles out from between them, laughing a little. When Richie finally lifts his face from Stan’s shoulder, there’s a pretty blonde woman pulling Eddie in for a comfortable embrace. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Stanley’s been so excited to have you over.”

“Patty, you beautiful soul, give me a hug, too,” Richie says, face wet, and Patty switches from Eddie to himself. Stan bends down to pick up the donut boxes, and doesn’t even seem annoyed by it. “Your house is so pretty. You’re so pretty. How did Stan end up with such a catch?”

“Get in here, you two,” Stan snorts, and Patty pats one of Richie’s shoulders when she breaks away. That gives her pause, and she makes a sort of pleasantly-surprised expression at his shoulder, then at Eddie. Richie’s vaguely aware of Eddie nodding, but he focuses on hiding his face in his hands.

Richie babbles his thanks as Patty hands him tissues, having him take a seat at the kitchen breakfast counter where Eddie and Stan are already engaged in busy chatter. He blows his nose into one, but Eddie doesn’t even pause in his ranting about the wine selection at the store Richie stopped at earlier.

“Would you two like anything to drink besides the wine? Water?” Patty asks, and Stan’s already opening the fridge for her as he nods along to whatever Eddie’s rambling about. Richie’s too busy crying to follow along with the conversation, but he watches Patty grab a full pitcher from the open fridge and bustle around for a few glasses. There's one glass on the counter, half-empty, which Richie assumes is hers.

“Thank you,” Richie croaks when she pours him his water. She hands a glass to Eddie as well, and he pauses his spiel to thank her and take a long sip. Richie downs the whole thing in one go. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he says, "Sorry for showing up so early. Eddie was throwing a fit." Eddie sputters into his glass, but manages not to spill anything.

"I was _not!_ What the fuck are you talking about?" he barks, and Richie grins easily. "Don't try to slander my name, you fucking—"

"No, you totally were. You were like, really determined to get here and give Stan a kiss on the cheek or something," he lies, and Eddie goes red.

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment," Stan interrupts, crossing his arms, "my wife gives me more than enough of those."

"I'm happy to," Patty agrees, filling Richie's cup with more water before turning to put the pitcher away. "I don't mind sharing, though!"

"Yeah? Let _me_ get a piece," Richie croons, leaning against the counter with his arms outstretched over it.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Trashmouth," Stan says, but he cracks a smile when Patty offers her hand instead and Richie takes it gingerly.

"I wasn't going to do that," Eddie interrupts, a little defensively, and Stan chuckles. It's a sound Richie might be able to fall in love with.

"Regardless, you're here anyway," Patty points out happily. She gently pats Richie's hand with her free one and then lets go to grab her own glass of water. "Me and Stan were just finishing setting up."

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" Richie asks, wiggling his brows Stan rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face hasn't left.

"Beep beep, Richie," he says smoothly, easily, and Richie goes soft. Stan turns and nods his head towards the back of the house, holding his hand out to find Patty's elbow on the way. "Come on, you guys can help with the finishing touches."

Their backyard is the most impressive thing about the place, in Richie’s opinion. The Uris patio has a dining table for eight, and an umbrella in the middle. The actual lawn has a couple stacks of chairs set out, which Richie helps to set up so they could all sit together after dinner. Stan does a quick check to make sure the grill is working, and doesn’t complain when Eddie immediately goes to inspect it.

"Thanks for helping," Patty says, spreading the chairs out more. "Me and Stan were trying to get these unstuck for a while, but it's been so long since we had enough company to use all of them. It’s like they’ve all melted together."

"No problem!" Richie chirps, separating the last few chairs without any problem at all. "You just gotta wiggle 'em a little. What else did you need me to do?"

"You could help me wipe these down now, if you want," Patty offers, and Richie agrees before she's even finished talking. "Great! Hold tight, Richie."

She leaves quickly through the sliding doors of the patio, probably to find whatever cleaning equipment is right for the chairs. They’re wicker, Richie thinks, or maybe he has no idea what he’s thinking about. He eyes the chairs intently, and only notices he’s being approached when someone bumps his arm.

“Oh,” he says, turning a little. Eddie is standing next to him, close enough so his right arm is brushing against Richie’s bicep. “What’s up, Eds? Decide the grill up to your standards?”

“Don’t call me Eds,” he replies without much bite. He’s observing the chairs now, and Richie can almost imagine his gaze zooming in on every speck of dust and dirt that’s collected on them. “Are you guys going to clean these?”

“Pat’s grabbing stuff for ‘em right now, yeah.” Richie shoves his hands into his pockets and looks over his shoulder to find Stan. He’s still fiddling with the grill, hovering a hand over it to make sure it heats up, or whatever. He’s frowning at it as he messes with the knobs. “What’s up with the grill?”

“It’s clean, but it isn’t working. Stan hasn’t used it all too much, so maybe it’s just the propane tank. He wanted me to ask if you could help.” Eddie looks up at him expectantly, and Richie blinks down at him. He turns so they’re facing each other.

“With the grill?” He points to it, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” Eddie clarifies.

“Oh, no, I don’t know anything about grills.” Suddenly, Eddie looks confused. “What’s that face for? Why’d you think I could help, do I look like a grilling guy?”

“What? I don’t know, you’re… Yeah? You’re a guy,” Eddie says, and now Richie’s confused.

“So?” he asks, and his friend looks like he’s struggling to explain something. “You’re also a guy. Stan’s also a guy.”

“No, you’re… I mean you look like…” He sort of gestures to Richie’s chest. “You know.”

“Are you saying I have tits?” Richie says, acting affronted, and Eddie’s eyes widen. Then Richie laughs, and Eddie's face settles back into an irritated scrunch.

“Shut up, asshole! No, I mean, you’re big, with the shoulders. You look like a guy who knows, like, guy things. Like grills.” He pauses to think for a second, then adds, “And steak.”

“I pan-sear my steaks, you loser,” Richie chuckles. He sort of bounces his shoulders one by one, and to his amusement, Eddie’s eyes follow them. He looks like he’s watching a game of ping-pong. “You think my shoulders mean I’m good at manly man things? Fixing grills? Fishing?”

“Can you help or not, you fucking ding dong?” Eddie shoots, and he’s starting to look a little flustered. He looks back at Stan, who’s now crouched in front of the grill with one hand on his chin and the other tapping at the propane tank. Richie doesn’t know about grills, but he doesn’t think that would help.

“No, Eddie Spaghetti, I don’t know how to fix grills.” Richie grins. “I’m flattered, though. Thanks for making assumptions about me based on my body type.”

Before Eddie can make a retort, the patio door slides open. Patty steps out with a few dry rags and a spray filled with soap and water. She has a big grin on her face, and doesn’t slide the door shut behind her. A second later, Richie realizes why.

“Where’s the party?” Mike greets with a grin on his face. He’s got sunglasses on that make him look like a total babe. In another life, Richie thinks he would swoon right into his big, beefy arms. Bill steps out onto the patio beside him, practically squeezing his way through the doorway that Mike mostly takes up. Bill glances around eagerly, until his gaze lands on the man standing up beside the grill.

“Stan,” he breathes, and they share a smile. Bill and Mike crowd Stan first, hugging and greeting him with just as much excitement as they do every facetime call. Blindly, Richie places a hand on the back of Eddie’s neck to lead him over. “Look at you, man! Look at your house!”

“What are we, chopped liver?” Richie chuckles. Bill turns and startles a little, like he forgot the other Losers would be coming over. Then he tugs Richie into a hug, strong and sturdy even though Richie’s got a whole head on him. Stan laughs somewhere beside them when Richie has to bend over to get his arms beneath Bill’s.

“Speak for yourself,” Eddie says somewhere behind Richie, and by the time he untangles himself from Bill, Eddie’s drawing away from his and Mike’s hug. They switch, Richie patting Mike’s back heartily and Eddie greeting Bill before being tugged into an equally strong embrace.

“We brought soda,” Mike offers when they’ve all got the greetings out of the way. Stan’s watching all of them, though he’s still messing with the knobs on the grill. Patty folds and unfolds one of the cleaning rags she has in her hands as she looks between everyone. “And beer. Not sure if it’s kosher, but Patty helped us get it into the fridge.”

“And I will be helping Patty clean the chairs,” Richie says dutifully, looking Patty’s way. She gives him a grateful look, though gestures to everyone else.

“You sure? You’re more than welcome to catch up,” she offers, but Richie’s already shaking his head and reaching out to grab one of the rags from her hands.

“We catch up every day over phone. I’ll make myself useful for once,” he says, slinging an arm around her shoulders once she’s close enough and steering her back to the chairs. “Those guys can mess with the grill all they want.”

“Something wrong with the grill?” Mike says from behind them, and Stan sounds grateful as he starts explaining the problem.

“You must be happy to see your friends again. You sure you’re alright hanging out with me and some chairs?” Patty chuckles, generously spritzing down the surface of one of the chairs in question. She gestures for Richie to start wiping it down before moving on to a new one herself.

“Pats, I’ve known you in person for less than twenty minutes, and I’m in love with you. We’re besties now,” Richie chirps, kneeling down to get started. The dust and dirt comes off easily, and he babbles as he wipes, “I don’t really know to help with whatever else your hubby’s up to, anyway.”

“So you’re helping me out because you have no other options,” she teases, wiping the dust off the back of one of the chairs.

“Oh yeah, totally. What’s your name again?” he asks without missing a beat, and grins up at her when she laughs.

Patty’s fun to hang out with. She’s very obviously a people person, much more so than Stan ever was. Whenever Richie glances back, Stan usually isn’t the one leading the conversation. He looks perfectly content with laughing and commenting every so often; he’s good at making people feel heard.

So it makes sense that Patty turns out to be the total opposite: she’s just as talkative as Richie is, without any of the crudeness. He stops looking back at the others altogether as they continue their chore, laughing and teasing and Richie even daring her to spray soapy water in his mouth to prove he can handle it. (He can’t. He immediately sputters, and Patty cracks up, and Richie goes red laughing along with her.)

As Patty and Richie are putting the cleaning supplies away, the other Losers show up. Bev and Ben come bearing kosher chips, guacamole, and salsa. Patty loves them for it, and Richie is reminded just a little bit of Jade of the Orient when he gets to hug Benverly at the front door. He gets to watch Patty give them hugs right after, though, as Bev gushes over her cute mailbox, and the thought flees his mind immediately.

The BBQ is in full swing when the Losers reunite once again. The chairs are clean, the grill is working; they all fit into the Uris kitchen and trail after one another onto the back patio without pointing it out. Bill manages to spill beer on Beverly by accident, and resolutely bows down while everyone else cheers Bev on to return the favor. Patty and Stan stick by each other's sides more than anyone else does, but they look like they belong there. _Finally,_ Richie thinks as he looks at her. They're all together. All of them.

* * *

"No, no, she was totally a republican," Richie says when they’re indoors again, all on different parts of a scale from lightly buzzed to moderately drunk. Half the Losers roll their eyes. "She was!"

"She literally—She grew up with her and all her friends forced into child labor," Bill insists, "there's no way she won't use that trauma for good."

"Her abuser was a woman who fantasized about wealth," Mike said solemnly. The look on his face is stony for a grown man taking up most of a loveseat. Bill is beside him, a little squished between the firm armrest and a manspreading Mike. “And she was against the idea that wealth was equivalent to happiness.”

“But she’s still a child,” Patty cuts in. “She could easily be influenced by the rich people she lives with. Maybe she would redistribute some wealth, sure, but ultimately, she’s being raised by capitalists that introduce money and luxury into her life. She would grow up separated by people who would teach her better.”

“Exactly! Having Daddy Warbucks as a father is my entire point!” Richie insists, pointing at Patty eagerly. Eddie makes a face from where he’s perched beside Patty on the couch, next to the loveseat where Bill’s sitting.

“Everyone here was raised by republicans, and you don’t see us following in their footsteps,” Eddie bites. This gives everyone pause, and they all glance at each other warily. “Okay, if someone here is a republican, we’re about to have a whole different conversation.”

“No one here is a republican,” Stan decides. He takes a sip of wine, officially finishing the glass, and Patty grabs the bottle off the coffee table to fill it up again. “Thank you, dear.”

“And speak for yourself, Eddie, baby! Maggie and Went put the ‘party’ in ‘democratic party,’” Richie points out proudly. He’s perched on the arm of the single chair that Bev’s in, with Ben in a comfy rocking chair between her spot and Mike’s side of the loveseat. He’d only gotten dibs because he was the most excited about it when Patty brought it out.

“My parents became democrats when I showed them my MySpace account,” Patty offers, topping off her own glass, and Richie busts out laughing.

“That’s probably why you two are the only ones on your side of the argument,” Beverly teases, laughing when Richie slaps her knee in his laughing fit.

“I have faith in Annie,” Ben admits with a grin, rocking lightly back and forth.

“I have faith in Daddy Warbucks,” Patty adds.

“I hate that we’re calling him Daddy Warbucks. Just call him Warbucks,” Eddie cringes.

“You’re the only one who has a problem with it, you weirdo,” Richie snorts, and Eddie promptly flicks him off. Richie thinks Eddie seems extremely grateful that a middle finger only requires one hand. “Don’t be rude, Eddie. Show some respect.”

“Says the grown man who doesn’t know how to sit down,” Stan drawls, and Richie just sticks out a tongue at him. Stan does it back.

“Alright, alright,” Mike speaks up, “no matter the political fate of fictional orphan Annie, I think it’s safe to say all of us hate capitalism. Right?”

That draws nods and murmurs of agreements from the group, and Mike makes a satisfied smiley face that makes Richie want to kiss his cute little cheeks. Beverly raises a beer.

“I know most of us in this room are rich, but I’d like to say: Eat the rich,” she toasts. Ben joins her in raising his own, and they clink their drinks together before taking a good gulp in unison.

“Eat the rich!” say the rest of the rich people in the room, raising their own drinks. Half of them are indulging in Kosher wine, while Bev, Ben, and Mike have been alternating between beer and soda. Eddie’s nursing a glass of water, because he’s decided to sober up before trying his hand behind the wheel. They’d practiced in the hotel parking lot earlier, and he was determined to get his driving skills back in action with the one less arm.

“Eddie, isn’t your job literally helping rich people?” Bill asks without any finesse.

“Isn’t your job being a bestselling author? Get off my dick until you cancel your movie deals, Denbrough,” Eddie shoots back harshly. Bill pouts a little.

“Me and Patty have no part in this,” Stan says. “We’re normal people. We have normal jobs. I think you guys are overcompensating for something.”

“Especially Richie,” Mike points out, and cackles when Richie makes a face at him.

“Me? I’m not even that famous!” he defends uselessly.

“That’s what a famous person would say,” Patty points out.

“Patty! I thought we were on the same side! Dem parents!” he wails.

“What was that? Did the two-day-Twitter trending comedian say something?” she asks, and Stan chuckles. Richie cries out dramatically, and Bev nearly spills her beer on his face laughing when he floats down over her lap.

“You look like a renaissance painting,” Stan observes in amusement.

“So you admit I’m a masterpiece,” Richie says.

“You’re a real piece of work, is what you are,” Eddie says, and Richie nearly spills his own drink when he laughs again.

“Eds gets off a good one!” he whoops, fist-pumping and offering Ben an upside-down high five when he leans over far enough. Ben indulges him without complaint.

“Why does Ben get the high five? I should get the high five.” Eddie sounds genuinely offended, and it only makes Richie laugh harder. Bill holds up a hand, and Eddie high fives him louder than Ben did Richie.

“Hey, shh!” Bev hushes him, even though she’s laughing as well. She gives him a high five as well, then drops her hand down to run her fingers through his messy hair. “You’re making a ruckus, Trashmouth! People are sleeping.”

“When is he not making a ruckus?” Mike chuckles, and Eddie leans all the way over Bill to take Mike’s wrist and lift his hand. He lets go when Mike keeps his hand suspended, then high fives him. “Oh, thanks for that.”

"Yeah, dude,” Eddie replies, and scrambles off of Bill’s lap with a yelp when Bill pretends to push Eddie onto the floor. "What are you trying to do, concuss me?

"If you're into that sort of thing," Bill says, and laughs when Eddie gently bonks him on the head with his fist. When Patty laughs, Eddie does it to her, too, a little gentler.

“It _is_ getting late,” Stan muses, checking his wristwatch. He looks very mature when he does it, which he’s done every hour since they’ve arrived. “You guys are welcome to hang out a little while more, but I’m not sure how long you were planning to stay.”

“We should probably get situated back at the hotel,” Ben offers, always one to pick up on cues. “We still hanging out tomorrow?”

“We better! This is the most fun I’ve had since our wedding,” Patty snorts, and Stan puts arm arm around her to rub her arm. Patty glances at him, and Stan raises his brows a little in question. She raises her brows twice in response. “Maybe since the honeymoon.”

“That’s our cue to leave!” Richie shouts, sitting up so fast Bev jumps. He smoothes a hand down the side of her head in apology. “Let’s get out of here, Losers, the Blum-Urises have the hanky-panky as the first thing on their itinerary.”

“Why would an itinerary start at eleven?” Bill asks, even as he stands and stretches his arms over his head. Mike follows, and steadily the rest of the Losers stand. “We all checked into the same hotel, right?”

“I’m pretty sure. Are we meeting at the breakfast place?” Beverly asks, and they spend the next several minutes going over the plans again. They’re going to spend the entire day together, just because they can and just because they want to. Richie’s looking forward to hanging out with everyone, especially Patty.

“We should shoot the hooch,” he says.

“I hate that people say that. Don’t say that,” Stan says.

“Richie, you keep telling us to ‘shoot the hooch,’ but you never tell us what the fuck you’re talking about,” Beverly points out. Richie grins at her.

“What’s there to talk about? I’m just really in the mood to shoot the hooch.” Eddie rolls his eyes and skirts around the coffee table to make it to the patio doors.

“I don’t know what the fucking ‘hooch’ is, but I don’t want any part of it. I think I left my keys outside, I’m gonna go grab them,” he says, and Richie perks up.

“I’ll go with you,” he says cheerily, and catches Stan grinning fondly at them. It kind of takes Richie by surprise still, seeing Stan be so openly affectionate in the way he looks at all of them. Though, he supposes anyone in Stan’s position wouldn’t be able to hide their excitement at all their friends coming over. “What’s that look for, Stan the Man?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” he pauses, thinking. “Out of everyone here, you two most remind me of back then. Always attached at the hip.”

“You have no idea,” Eddie says, sliding open one of the doors and managing not to spill his water. Richie stares at Stan a little longer before padding over to Eddie. “I can’t get rid of this guy. He’s like a parasite,” he says, a little softer than he must have meant to sound.

“Aw, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Eds? Me as your lil’ tapeworm,” Richie coos, wiggling his fingers and jabbing at Eddie’s stomach. He jumps back with a yelp, and wacks Richie’s hands away-none-too gently. “Why so impolite? Lemme back in there.” He tickles Eddie’s stomach again to get the same reaction.

“Sometimes, I think you two haven’t aged at all,” Beverly says, and Richie giggles as he ducks outside. Eddie follows, face pinched into a frown.

“Don’t let the bugs in, boys!” Patty calls from inside the house. Eddie dutifully shuts the sliding doors, muting the sounds of their friend’s chatter starting up again inside.

It’s chilly outside, but definitely warmer than New York. Stan and Patty had left the patio lights on, and there are a few moths idly bobbing from bulb to bulb. Richie’s still giggling when Eddie shoves him out of the way a little, stepping down the stairs and making his way to the chairs they’d used earlier.

“Where’d you see the keys last?” Richie asks, looking around as he follows. Eddie sets his glass of water down on the arm of a chair. When Richie looks forward, he sees Eddie pull the keys from his pocket and show it to him. “Oh. Then…”

“I just wanted to get away for a second,” Eddie says, tucking the keys back into his pocket with a faint jingle of metal. He sits himself down in one of the chairs with a sigh, and Richie glances back at the house awkwardly.

“Oh,” he says again. “Uh, I can go back inside if you want.” Eddie shakes his head and grabs his glass of water. He gestures for Richie to sit before taking a sip.

“It’s okay. Just chill out with me for a couple minutes, before we head out.” And, well. Who is Richie to deny time spent with Eddie Kaspbrak? He plops down on the seat beside Eddie, making himself comfortable.

“Did you enjoy the BBQ?” he asks, slumping down enough to reach the grass. Richie plucks a green blade from the ground and tears it in half.

 _“Barbeque,”_ Eddie corrects, watching his glass for a second before looking up at Richie. “Why do you keep saying the letters ‘BBQ’?”

“That’s what it’s called,” Richie defends, and Eddie makes a face.

“That’s the abbreviation for it,” he points out.

“Same thing,” Richie says, and Eddie rolls his eyes and looks up towards the sky. Richie stares for a second: at the line of his neck, the sharp edge of his jaw. Eddie’s profile is all intense edges and angles, and Richie follows them with his eyes.

“So? Did you enjoy it?” he asks, looking away when Eddie turns to him. He lets the pieces of grass fall from his fingers and reaches down again to grab another.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies immediately, nodding a few times. “I had a lot of fun. It was nice seeing Stan again, and meeting Patty. She’s great.”

“I think so, too. You excited for tomorrow?” he continues. Eddie looks at him a little weirdly.

“I am. What’s with the questions?” he shoots back.

“I dunno, man, I’m just trying to make small talk,” Richie shrugs, splitting the grass blade in half just as easily as he had the first one. “How’d you think Benverly looked? Happy, right?”

“Richie,” Eddie says. Richie tears a small strip from the edge of the grass piece and lets it go just as a soft breeze blows past. It turns and twists in the weak wind, dancing all the way to the side and onto the ground.

He didn’t have the chance to ask before they showed up here. He would’ve waited until the hotel, but seeing everyone back together again made Richie think of what comes after this. Hes steels himself for a few seconds, and it eternally grateful when Eddie is quiet and patient.

“Are you still coming with me to LA?” Richie asks nervously, what he’s wanted to ask this entire time. “Like, are you still sure? I don’t want to make you feel, like, obligated to hang out with me all the time, or make you feel like you can’t get your own place, even for a little bit. I don’t—You know, I just want to make sure.”

“I’m sure.” Eddie’s making eye contact with him, but Richie’s gaze is set on the blade of grass. He picks another one and compares the sizes of both. “I want to move in with you, if you’ll still have me. Unless you’ve changed your mind about that?”

“No. No, no, I want you there, too. With me. I just wanted to ask again, because, like, you deserve… I want you to know you’re happy with where you’re at.” Richie glances up at him, but looks back at the grass right away. “Your eyes are fucking huge, man, I feel really put on the spot right now.”

“You’re the one who started this up again, dipshit,” Eddie insults without any heat. He leans forward a little. “So you want to live with me. You’re sure.”

 _I’m sure,_ he wants to say. _I would do anything to live with you. I want to be around you all the time, and I don't know what I would do if I weren’t._

“Yeah,” Richie says instead.

“Cool,” Eddie says.

“Yeah,” Richie repeats.

“Did you have fun?” Eddie asks. “I know we—Well, I guess everyone was crowding Stan and Patty. I didn’t get to talk to you much during it.”

“Aw, did you miss me?” Richie chuckles, and Eddie frowns and kicks his shoe. Richie kicks him back. “No, dude, it’s fine. We talk all the time anyway! Remember how we’re living together? Which we both made explicitly clear just now?”

“I know, doofus, I was just saying. It was an observation,” Eddie clarifies.

“The only thing I was observing is Stan’s little watch. Did you notice that?” Richie pictures it and shakes his head. “People who wear watches, man. We’re living in the smartphone age now.”

“I used to wear a watch,” Eddie defends, and Richie looks at his wrist skeptically.

“Oh, yeah. What happened to that thing anyway?” he asks, eyeing his arm.

“I wore it on my left,” Eddie explains.

“Where is it then?” When he looks back up, Eddie’s making a face like Richie said something particularly dumb. “What?”

“I wore it on my left arm,” Eddie says slowly. Richie furrows a brow and looks at Eddie’s wrist again. “Dude.”

“What?” he says again.

“Oh my fucking god,” Eddie says.

“Oh!” Richie realizes, and then he gets thrown into a fit of laughter. Eddie rolls his eyes, but snorts when Richie slaps his own knee. “I’m so dumb. Sorry, man.”

“I’m sorry, too. Forty-one years old and you don’t know your left from your right. Get well soon.” Richie giggles at that, and Eddie can’t hide his smile when he takes a long sip of water.

Richie calms down eventually, and they fall silent for a few minutes. If Richie strains his ears, he can hear their friends laughing inside, see their silhouettes in the golden light against the patio doors. Richie fiddles with the grass between his fingertips as he looks at the distant night sky, over the roof of the neighboring homes. He can see some bugs around the streetlights, too. It’s a quiet night.

When his hands start itching to move, he grabs some more grass and tears the piece in half, looking intently at it as he makes large crescents with his fingernail. One, two, three. He thinks he can manage a fish shape with a larger piece, actually.

“Hey, quit tearing up Stan and Pat’s lawn,” Eddie says, and Richie snorts.

“It’s just grass. They can always do the same at our place if they ever come to visit,” he offers.

“Our place?” Richie glances up, but Eddie’s looking vaguely at the dark horizon.

“Yeah. Well, I guess _my_ place, but the second you step over the threshold it’ll be yours, too. Not legally, but. Yeah. Ours.” He feels like he’s rambling a little, but it isn’t like Eddie’s stopping him. He clears his throat, coughs a little, and admits, “I really am excited to live with you. For realsies, not in some AirBnB apartment. I don’t think those count.”

And he _is_ excited. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever had this before, this eagerness to share part of himself with another person. When he was a kid, maybe: teasing Stan on the playground, riding on the back of Silver until he begged his parents for his own bike, cackling and shrieking at Eddie every chance he got.

Whenever he’d last felt this way, it was a long time ago. The feeling only really came back when he’d reunited with the Losers. Richie supposes he’s always been too scared to show himself to another person, too paranoid they either won’t like what they see or use the vulnerable parts of him to do some real damage when he inevitably fucked something up.

The point is, he isn’t scared anymore. At least, not right now, when he’s sitting in his best friend’s lawn, telling his other best friend he’s stoked to move in with him. Richie doesn’t know when he’ll be scared again, but for once, he isn’t too worried about it. It’s hard to be worried about anything when he can hear most of his friends talking and laughing thirty feet away, and when he can see Eddie shifting closer in his peripheral, and when—

“Hey,” Eddie says, and Richie looks at him. Eddie’s hand comes up to his face, keeping him there, and then his lips are at the corner of Richie’s mouth. The grass in Richie’s hands twirl gracefully into his lap.

Richie is frozen. Eddie’s mouth isn’t even on his, not really, but his hand is cupping his cheek, and his eyes are closed, and his shoulder moves forward like he’s trying to deepen a kiss that isn’t happening. Richie wants to gape, but he can’t move. He’s not sure he wants to.

There’s the faintest hint of an exhale when Eddie pulls away, eyes fluttering open to stare at Richie’s lips before meeting his gaze. His hand is still on his face, and Richie’s allowed to gape now, so he does.

“Now your eyes are bigger than mine,” Eddie muses, and all Richie can manage is a blink. Eddie’s hand slips from his face, his thumb curving on the way and lingering on Richie’s jaw for a millisecond longer than the rest of his touch, and he stands. “Thanks, Rich. I’ll see you at the hotel.”

By the time Richie has the ability to think again, the patio door is sliding shut and Eddie is gone. His face is still warm, partially because of the alcohol, and he lifts a hand to touch where the memory of Eddie’s fingertips are buzzing on his cheek. It’s still chilly out, but he suddenly feels like he’s overheating.

His phone buzzes in his pocket a little later. It’s from Stan, a text that says: _What are you doing out there, Tozier? If you’re pissing on my lawn, I’ll have my wife beat you up. Don’t test me._

Another text, as Richie’s still reading the first one: _Eddie’s catching a ride with Bill since you’re taking so long. Mike’s driving you to the hotel. You okay?_

Two small, brown moths whizz past him, dancing around each other on their way to the house lights in a frantic waltz. Richie exhales steadily and leans back, craning his neck to look up into Atlanta, Georgia’s light-polluted night sky.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and another light breeze blows the grass off his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there it is!!! my pride and joy!!! onto the rest of this fic >:) i'll try not to keep you waiting too long!

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment if you liked any part of this or have any Thoughts! you can also find me on twitter, @kaspbrave!


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